


Can't Go Back

by Giggles96



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cute, Dad!Harvey, Domestic Fluff, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jellybean, Platonic Cuddling, tagging Jellybean as supporting character and no-one can stop me, teen!Mike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 108,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey notices something off about Mike; Mike can't believe this concerned imposter is Harvey. A stumble, a crash, shattered glass. Nothing will ever be the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

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**CAN'T GO BACK:**

Prologue

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****Summary:**** Harvey notices something off about Mike; Mike can't believe this concerned impostor is Harvey. A stumble, a crash, shattered glass. Nothing will ever be the same again.

 **A/N:** To tell the truth, I honestly don't know whether or not I'll continue this. It's a 'de-aging' fic of sorts, I suppose, only with a weird twist. If it's well-received, then, of course I'll keep going. But like I said, it's a little strange and I'm basically experimenting, so… we shall see.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for foul language - it's particularly awful in this chapter._

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_Having perfected our disguise, we spend our lives searching for someone we don't fool_

Robert Brault

 

The lighting's dim, dingy - not his regular hangout, though similar. He has pretty low standards lately - and the place is practically deserted.

But that's okay. Mike could use the quiet.

Head pounding, he shakily climbs onto the bar stool and wrestles with his nervous gag reflex, cursing his stupid stomach for fooling around for no apparent reason. Sure, the bar reeks of cheap whiskey, sweat and booze, and the air is hazy with swirls of soft smoke, but he should be accustomed to that traditional stench by now and all its sickening glory. After all, he was once the king of house parties, partial to a little pot on the side and a one night stand every weekend.

Key word there, though. Was.

Mike _was_ the king.

Six months ago, he turned it all around the day his life crossed paths with the ever-so-suave, diabolical Harvey Specter. With a renewed sense of self-belief and an unremitting stubbornness to succeed, the lifestyle that was already becoming wearisome, instantly lost its appeal. And, to be honest, he hasn't ever truly missed it.

Not even now could Mike bring himself to revisit to those former glory days of cheap, empty thrills.

Now when nothing is making any sense and he's all alone and his cell buzzes in pocket for what is likely his twentieth missed call, but he hasn't got the guts to answer it.

He's a fool. A stupid, cowardly fool. Yet, at least Mike's kept his wits about him.

However, as glad as Mike may be that he's not holed up in some dodgy shit-hole getting high with a bunch of whack-jobs, all he _really_ wants is to drink away his sorrows. Not that he _would._ He's not totally irresponsible.

Mike knows that right now his tolerance for alcohol is disturbingly deficient and that if he so desired, he could get absurdly smashed with very little effort on his part, which is something the young man does, amazingly, wish to avoid.

Nonetheless, Mike figures one beer can't hurt, provided he actually gets served. It'll be a real bummer if he has to leave here stone-cold sober. Man, he hopes that's not the case. Mike just doesn't think he could do it. Though, chances are… that's _exactly_ what's going to happen.

For reasons unknown to him, not only can he not drink as much any longer, nobody _wants_ him to. Lately, everyone has become so unbelievably disapproving and watchful. All Mike ever hears anymore is no. Like anybody has any real say over his actions - as if his well-being _matters_ somehow.

" _No, I am telling you now, there is no way in hell I am letting you visit your grandmother alone at this hour. It's already dark. Let me grab my coat, I'll come with you."_

Harvey had been a serious pain in the ass that night. Sorry, _evening_ \- it was only six frickin o'clock.

Subsequent to accompanying him on his visit to a jubilant Grammy who agreed on the risks of biking only minutes after sunset to no end, his boss had held him hostage at his condo, (a detour he'd been conned into taking with the promise of unfinished paperwork, an unforeseen luxury he'd found himself sorely missing) claiming that Mike was in dire need of a home-cooked meal and declaring - after reaching for the hem of his shirt and unceremoniously scrunching it upwards to 'check that his ribs aren't poking out' to Mike's unadulterated horror - that the younger man could really stand to gain a few pounds.

Under Harvey's razor-sharp glare, he'd quickly eaten until his languid tummy swelled with warmth and an over-abundance of food that it was far from accustomed to, before unintentionally dropping off on the sofa. Mike awakened with a start to discover that he had been wrapped up and mummified in a soft, fleece blanket dotted with cars and trucks from some kid's TV show, and staggered beyond belief, wondered, A: where the hell had such a horrendously juvenile article come from? And, _more importantly_ , B: had Harvey Specter seriously _tucked_ him _in_?

And that's not even the worst of it. There are countless examples of this bizarre phenomenon that only Mike seems to be on familiar terms with.

Such as the time he was banned from a meeting by Donna, who was disturbed because the guy (an insanely wealthy client who _happened_ to have one tribal tattoo that Mike bet was simply a drunken slip-up from his youth) appeared 'dangerous' and was obviously 'from a rougher part of town.' Never mind the fact that he lives in a extravagant, multi-million-dollar mansion in New Jersey and owns a string of high-class restaurants that Mike could never hope to dine in, even if he booked the reservation three years in advance and saved the entire duration in between.

 _"No, Mike. Did you_ see _his tattoos? Harvey can handle this one by himself. You keep me company instead. We can work on some of these neat little puzzles together, hmm? Doesn't that sound like fun?"_

It certainly did not sound like fun.

All the same, he'd pasted on a nervous smile, which was stiff and crooked and not the least bit convincing, and lowered himself onto his knees, selecting a jig-saw puzzle at random and emptying the box, scouring the pieces and turning them the right side up, much to the delight of the senior partner and his slightly frightening secretary.

One instance really stands out in his mind, though, as the moment when Mike genuinely contemplated the theory that he was cooking all of this up in his head - the only logical explanation, he rationalized - because Harvey Specter could not possibly be on the verge of a panic attack at the mere prospect of him filing.

 _"The answer is no,_ " he had all but snarled, as he paced the length of his office and tugged anxiously at strands of his hair with one hand, _"I don't like the idea of you down in the file rooms by yourself. What if you bumped your head or tripped or fell asleep and I couldn't find you? Those boxes are too heavy for you, Mike; what if you couldn't manage to lift one and ended up toppling it over? You could get seriously hurt."_

The hardest thing to swallow was that the typically brisk, dispassionate man wasn't even remotely kidding.

Thunderstruck, he'd stood there, gaping, for five solid minutes, before being sent back to his desk with firm instructions not to budge without notifying either Harvey or Donna, not even to go to the bathroom.

The entire situation has gotten so far out of hand that work has pretty much become unbearable.

It's as if he needs a babysitter or he'll do something stupid like, heaven forbid, _cross the road without holding someone'_ _s goddamn hand_. Gasp. What a shocker.

It's so bad that _Rachel_ even tied his shoelaces yesterday. She asked if he needed any help, (which he totally didn't) and before he could politely decline, she simply bent down and laced them up anyway, walking away with zero explanation.

It is driving Mike insane.

So… here he is. Like a mother-fucking adult. Doing _adult_ things. And no-one - not Harvey or Donna or Rachel or Louis - _no_ t _anyone_ can stop him.

How'd you like that, _world_? Screw your ridiculous rules and concerned supervision and all the other bullshit that's been going on lately.

Oh, and just for the record, _asswipes_ , he can swear if he bloody well wants to!

By this stage Mike's chest is heaving, and he gasps for air, glaring at the stupid speck of dirt in front of him with mindless ferocity.

"Hey, kid," he suddenly hears a velvety voice call out and growls under his breath, infuriated by the interruption. "You're a little young to be parked up at the bar, you hear?"

Her tone's light, slapdash, and Mike gets the feeling she's not the type many take seriously. Smirking despite himself, he relaxes, feeling the slowly tension fade from his muscles.

"Yeah, well, I'm having a pretty shitty day," Mike grimly confesses, mouth twisting as the bartender picks up a washcloth and begins to wipe down the counter.

"Oh, yeah?" she says inquiringly, hitching up a brow. "Wanna tell me about it?"

He flicks a glance at her in disbelief.

"Oh, sure," the younger man responds, heavy on the sarcasm. "Let me fill you in on all the intimate details of my life. No problem."

The bartender rolls her eyes. "Alright." She shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever. No biggie. Just trying to help a guy out. A listening ear and all that. No need to be such a dick about it."

Immediately feeling guilty for giving the innocent woman such snark, he sighs, shoving a hand through his hair and sagging slightly. It's not her fault everything's gone to crap.

"I'm sorry," Mike sheepishly murmurs, scratching the nape of his neck. "It's been a rough day. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I guess, I forgot my manners."

"Yeah," the stranger grumbles with a muffled scoff, "If you ever had any to begin with," and he laughs.

"No, I mean it. I apologise for being such an ass."

"No problem. Happens all the time." She rolls her shoulders, as casual as ever. "So, what'll you be having? You know I can't serve you any alcohol, right? You can't be more than.. what? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

Oh, for Christ's sake!

Grimacing at the assumption and recalling his misplaced ID, Mike scarcely retrains himself from banging his head against the bar in order to reply dejectedly, "Sure, don't worry about it."

"How about some fruit juice instead?" she offers up in its place. "It's pretty good."

Searching her face for any sign of teasing, all Mike can detect is pure sincerity. _Great,_ he thinks bitterly _, Just great_. "Um…" Still feeling somewhat embarrassed about earlier, he agrees reluctantly, unable to stop his nose from wrinkling, "Uh… 'kay..."

She snorts. "Don't sound too enthusiastic."

He grins. "I'll try."

When she hands him an honest-to-God plastic cup with a striped, swirly straw, it's all he can do not to cringe. Slowly taking a sip, Mike is delightfully surprised to find that the juice is not so bad, some mixed-berry blend that's both cool and sweet. He's almost half-way done by the time his shirt pocket lights up and begins to vibrate for what feels like the millionth time. Mike rolls his eyes.

Shoulda turned it off when he had the chance.

"Aren't you gonna get that?" the bartender asks, furrowing a brow. "S'probably your Mum or Dad wondering where you are."

"Nah," Mike brushes off, absently twirling the straw. "I doubt it's anything important."

"You sure? You seem like the kinda kid that'd have somebody out there freaking out when their son's not home by-" She throws a glance towards the clock on the far left wall, "-Twelve-thirty. I'm guessing curfew? And a strict one, at that."

 _I'm guessing you should mind your own_ _frickin' business._

Meanwhile, the buzzing continues. On and on and on, to his chagrin. God, he's really not in the mood. Why can't they just leave him alone? He's twenty odd years too old for this shit.

"Go ahead," the stranger jerks her chin after a few minutes. "Might as well get it over with, am I right?"

She has a point, he supposes. He's not so lucky that his self-appointed guardian is in any hurry to give up anytime soon.

Wiping his suddenly sweaty palms against his jeans, Mike takes a deep breath and winces as he accepts the call.

"…H-hello?" he inquires tentatively.

"Mike? Mike, where the hell are you?" the muted voice is positively furious, but there's an undercurrent of worry that makes his heart clench. "I've been calling you for hours! You are in _so_ much trouble, young man."

Gulping, Mike tries to keep his voice steady as he responds, "I-I'm fine, alright? There's no need to get so worked up-"

"Tell me where you are. I'm coming to pick you up."

"Harvey, no, I don't need you to-"

"Mike," he coolly remarks, "It is in your best interests right now not to argue with me. Donna has been going out of her mind with worry and to tell you the truth, I haven't been particularly impressed by your little disappearing act either."

" _I'm_ _okay_ -" he asserts fruitlessly through gritted teeth.

"Tell. Me. Where. You. Are." Each word is sharp and punctuated, tone dangerously commanding, and Mike soon falters.

Why is being rebellious so damn hard all of a sudden?

"I-I'm at Sandino's, okay?" he grudgingly divulges, voice dipping into petulant territory as his lips jut out into what is unquestionably _not_ a pout. "Down by Seventh. But it doesn't matter where I am, okay? I can hail a cab later. I don't need you to come get me or whatever."

There's silence on the other line.

"You.. went.. to a bar?" comes the ominously slow reply and feeling his heart quicken, Mike nervously bites his lip.

Harvey exhales in exasperation, and Mike can just _picture_ his tense jaw and aggravated glower clutching at his guilt with rigid, ravening fingers.

"It's not a big deal-" he tries weakly.

"I'll be there in five," his boss irately cuts in, terminating the call before Mike can get a word in edgewise.

"Dammit," he mutters to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and digging the heel of his hand into his right brow where the tension is already starting to fester.

Man, this sucks. Mike is so sick of being told what to do. Just who the hell does Harvey think he is, anyway? He's not the boss of-

Well, shoot.

Giving in to the urge, Mike groans and lays his head on his criss-crossing arms in front of him, squishing his nose against his wrist pathetically. The bartender does her best to look sympathetic, but this only highlights the relief that has replaced what he hadn't even recognised as concern before.

 _Wonderful_ , he huffs in disbelief. Now he even has some complete stranger caring about his safety.

How in the world is this his life? Just because his facial hair has miraculously stopped growing, his suits have become startlingly loose as of late, and knotting ties is an intricate procedure he can't quite accomplish on his own anymore, doesn't mean that he's a child that demands protection.

Not even if lately Mike's been acting a little out of the ordinary himself.

Yeah, he's a tad more emotional than usual, (the dark is _scary,_ and it isn't _fair_ that they're on the twenty-eighth floor, and Harvey should never have told him off for scribbling a few spiders on some documents he'd left behind on his desk when they looked _so_ much cooler - none of that is his fault) and maybe had a tantrum once or twice, and okay, so it is getting somewhat harder and harder to distinguish basic words and sometimes - just sometimes - he finds it difficult to sleep without his new blankie ( _it's super soft and snug. Really, who can blame him?_ ). Not to mention his attachment to his stuffed wolf, Jellybean.

...The same Jellybean he'd _really_ like to cuddle right around now.

Feeling completely and utterly out of his depth, Mike sighs and begins kneading his tired, prickling eyes.

He is so, so _beyond_ screwed.

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_Thanks for reading._

_Please let me know what you think._


	2. Act Your Age

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**CHAPTER ONE:**

Act Your Age

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**A/N:** Okay, folks, so this is the deciding chapter. It might be a little jumpy and all over the place, which I sincerely apologise for, but it's the format I've chosen, so please just roll with it. Let's just say, I'm hoping it works out.

I want to be upfront with you all, though, before the story begins. I may be kinda slow updating, because next week I'm going back to school after taking a year out due to illness, so it's going to be a little hectic and overwhelming in the beginning until I readjust. If I have any energy to spare, rest assured, I will do my best to get this written, but if not, please don't think I've abandoned the story.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for foul language._

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x-X-x

Two weeks previously

x-X-x

 

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He should feel honoured, he thinks, to have been granted this magnificent opportunity to represent such a major corporation. But all Mike can muster is the barest ember of interest that, if he's strictly honest with himself, is essentially just his obligation as Harvey's associate dressed up to look pretty.

Mike _has_ to do this. He hasn't really got a choice, and whatever anticipation he _might_ have scrounged together about doing this has been blanketed by a thick, entangling fatigue of the heaviest scale that is almost suffocating in its persistency.

Mike _knows_ that this is important. Knows he cannot afford to mess this up.

He's positive that his foot does not, in fact, weigh a ton and his legs shouldn't really cave in like that at the knees with each step.

He knows all of this, somewhere, in the far corners of his mind or holed up someplace in his gut that has a tendency to take precedence in his decision-making, where the exhaustion doesn't run quite so deep - but it's muted. Much like everything else.

His entire demeanour is, for lack of a better word, disgracefully unsightly. From the drooping bags under his bloodshot eyes, general ungainliness and wrinkled suit, to his slack shoulders, unfocused gaze and ashen skin. Truthfully, Mike would much rather resemble a lawyer than a zombie at this meeting, for professionalism's sake, but that's simply not going to happen and he has to accept that.

As does Harvey, for that matter, who has not ceased glowering at him since the moment they entered the foyer of this fine establishment with the glaring lights that he worries might possibly cause his eyes to bleed any second. The damning brightness of the… labs, isn't it? Mike thinks they're in a lab, or something of the sort. Anyway, it is much too much for his sleep-deprived, highly sensitive, but also slightly baffled brain to come to grips with, and it _hurts_ , dammit, like nothing he's ever encountered before.

He's been awake for going on two and a half days now, surviving primarily on redbull and a jumbo-pack of M&M's, so who can blame Mike for not exactly having a clue what's going on?

Harvey's certain to hold a grudge, that's a given, but the client? He's too preoccupied panicking over the likelihood of being sued that he has hardly even glanced in the associate's direction, which is fantastic, aside from the part about getting sued, obviously. Which he understands is very distressing. Kind of.

Nevertheless, Mike is simply thankful that he doesn't really have to do very much, because he is seriously doubting his ability to form coherent words at present, and if _their_ voices are somewhat muffled, then what would his own sound like? Probably akin to a whale or some other lethargic, droning creature, if that's possible, because chances are, his sentences would all get chopped up by yawns anyway.

His movements are clumsy and stilted as they make their way towards the back of the sterile room where Dr Slater is busy presenting the weird, liquid gel stuff that caused all of this trouble in the first place, and Harvey is nodding all reassuring-like, and this is stupid because they don't even know what any of this crap does or if it even works, and Mike feels deeply uncomfortable all of a sudden amidst all of these decidedly breakable, unknown substances.

Realising his disquieting proximity to the experiments on display, Mike scrambles away from the beakers brimming with potentially deadly solutions in a bewildering burst of comprehension, but in turn, stumbles and slips.

He attempts to right himself, but fails miserably, and in his efforts to grasp onto the workbench with one flailing limb, knocks over two separate containers, which promptly smash on the floor beside him, sending a gust of smoke into the air as the contents intertwine with delicate grace - ocean blues and buttercup yellows creating a stunning green that is the exact shade of springtime. Instinctively, he covers his mouth and nose with the back of his hand, but it's too late.

Mike's already inhaled at least some of the unidentified concoction.

And he's suddenly coughing - deep, ragged coughs, that spew from his chest with an intensity that makes the colour drain from a nearby Harvey's features.

His boss is at his side at once, thumping his back in alarm while the scattered glass crunches under their feet, before rubbing in soothing circles when the aforementioned yields little benefit.

The cloud of chemicals clears quickly, which is fortunate for Harvey who has only the cuff of his shirt thrust under his nose for protection, but the damage has already been done.

The client, Dr Slater, stands back with a frozen expression of horror that _really_ doesn't inspire much confidence. Oh, man, he's going to sprout wings or another toe or something equally ridiculous, isn't he? God, Mike really doesn't want to be some pathetic freak. He's enough of a freak already and Lord knows, he has pitifulness in spades.

"It's okay, kid. You're going to be fine, it was nothing, I swear. Everything's okay," Harvey murmurs, willing it to be true as Mike's body is stricken by another shudder, tears welling up in his eyes as he continues to gag and splutter with excruciating forcefulness.

Pained and powerless, Harvey's detached façade shatters, as he tightens his grip around the kid's shoulders and comfortingly massages his arm. "Shouldn't we call for an ambulance or something?" he directs frantically at the supposed expert, but no sooner has he said this than Mike catches his breath, inhaling deeply as the stuttering cough slowly subsides. A little colour returns to his crumpled face, to Harvey's immense relief, and Mike gives a weak smile.

"I'm fine," he croaks. "It's all good. Just give me a sec and I'll be right as rain, yeah?"

_Here's hoping_.

"You don't know that," Dr Slater points out, tone shaky and unsure. "We have no idea what was in those containers."

Mike thinks then that he may have some inkling as to why this dude keeps getting sued.

Harvey fixes the jumpy client with a menacing glare that soon has him backtracking. "I mean, I'll have to look into it, certainly. And Mr Ross should probably get checked out, even so. If there are any, er, peculiar side-effects, please do let me know. I'll do whatever I can to fix this." He winces, wringing his hands and casting a nervous glance at the door. "That's assuming there is, you know, um, anything to fix."

Both lawyers get the distinct impression that he isn't telling them everything, but let it drop for the time being as Mike's attempts to get on his feet give rise to an unsettling, piercing gasp.

Harvey immediately springs into action, deftly arranging Mike's arm so that it curls around his neck, shouldering the majority of his weight as the young man leans on him heavily.

Crushing his nose into the crook of Harvey's collarbone, Mike sniffs miserably in a way he's not altogether sure is a blatant shot at garnering sympathy as he limps towards the front of the building where Ray is no doubt waiting.

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His examination is brief but thorough, and Mike is reassured that everything is as it should be, with the exception of a slight bruising of his ankle, which should clear up in about a week or so, so long as he doesn't overexert himself and keeps an ice-bag readily available.

Oh, and rumour has it, his metabolism is operating at a pace that's a bit faster than usual, oddly enough, which is apparently nothing to be concerned about. He may need to eat an additional snack or two, but beyond that, it should have little to no effect on his everyday life.

There's also a variety of cuts and bruises littering his legs and a particularly nasty gash on Mike's palm where a shard of glass was kind enough to embed itself. It's bad enough to warrant a bandage, but not so severe as to leave any scarring. He's just pissed because it'll hurt like a bitch every time he uses his crutches.

And because Mike is an idiot, he lets it go.

Harvey gives him the rest of the day off, which he is eternally grateful for, and Mike merely returns to his rundown apartment, snatches a bag of frozen peas from his freezer and falls face-first onto his mattress after remembering to ensure that his foot is vaguely elevated, plonked upon a threadbare, lumpy cushion.

He sleeps until his alarm beeps the next morning, waking to find himself tangled up in damp sheets with mushy peas squished into his pyjama bottoms after the meagre bag bust during the night, with a blackened ankle that's even more troublesomely tender than beforehand.

Mike hazardously pulls on his suit and sloppily loops his tie around his neck, flinching as his pants leg snags on his toe and causes his ankle to twist upwards at an angle he's sure will come back to haunt him later.

There's not enough time for breakfast, so Mike chugs his coffee in one go and stuffs some energy bars into his messenger bag that he then slings over his shoulder, thankful for the three cans of redbull he still has stashed somewhere at his cubicle.

Hopping on one foot towards his door where he had heedlessly dumped his crutches the day before, Mike casts a single, mournful look towards the vacant space devoid of his beloved bicycle, before resigning himself to catching a stinkin' taxi and stepping out into the brisk, September morning with minimal sunshine.

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What it really boils down to, in the end, is that Mike leads a rather fast-paced lifestyle and following the initial panic, it seems silly to dwell on a little accident at a lab that may or may not beget grave consequences. The younger man basically resumes working and carries on as normal, because that's what is to be expected and Mike's response is entirely reasonable.

What else is there to do but keep going?

The changes are subtle at first. So subtle, indeed, that they are virtually undetectable, if he's frank. But sometimes he likes to ignore that fact, because then it's simply easier to call himself stupid and be done with it.

Though even he'll acknowledge that that's delusional.

Because he's not 'done with it.' And he never will be.

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**-o-0-o- Rachel -o-0-o-**

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Mike hobbles into the bullpen twenty minutes late, carefully manoeuvring around the sharp corners and curious onlookers to his desk, where a mountainous stack of unstable briefs lurk.

Heaving a despondent sigh, he uncaps his highlighter with his teeth and props his leg up onto a spare chair that he'd painstakingly dragged over, dropping onto his seat and firing up his computer.

An hour into his scuffle with some stupid files that _refuse_ to diminish in volume, as he taps the rhythm to some classic Fleetwood Mac on his kneecap, Mike snaps back to reality with a jolt when his earbuds are lightly tugged from behind.

"Jesus," he cries in surprise, hand pressed against his chest. "Rachel, don't _do_ that," he pants, breaths wild and erratic. "Are you _trying_ to scare the crap out of me?"

Easily disregarding his indignation, the indifferent paralegal traces her finger absently along the divider.

"Hey, Doofus," Rachel grins. "What's with the crutches?"

"Hurt my ankle," Mike half-shrugs.

"I can see that." She rolls her eyes disdainfully. When he doesn't automatically launch into an explanation, she clarifies, "I want to know how. _How_ did you hurt your ankle?"

"Oh, you know," he glances nonchalantly down at his nails, "Through totally manly deeds such as hunting for boar and occasionally slaying a few hostile enemies. In between trekking through deadly woods with only a single carved knife for protection and fending off ravenous wolves, of course."

"You mustn't have been all that proficient, then, if you're wounded," she points out with a chuckle. "What'd you do? Trip on a twig? Run into a vengeful Red Riding Hood?"

"Um," Feigning insult, Mike coughs, "No. It was a battle," he grandly announces, " _To the death_ -"

Lips twitching, she purses her lips and nods. "Between you and a squirrel?"

"-Between _myself_ ," he glares, "And a fearsome huntsman with a flair for archery-"

"Archery, yeah, I can see that," Rachel allows, bowing her head in consideration. "Because obviously we're living in the dark ages…"

"-And while he put up a worthy fight, ultimately, I emerged victorious, walking away-"

"Limping, technically-"

"With only _this **measly** injury,"_ he declares, blue eyes sparkling, and as Rachel laughs unreservedly at his inanity.

Stifling a smile, Mike interlaces his hands behind his head and lounges against in his chair idly, drawling, "It was epic."

"I'm sure it was," the amused woman says indulgently, grinning widely. "Now how about we rewind the last couple minutes and you tell me what _really_ happened, 'kay?"

"But where's the fun in that?" Mike shoots back, tilting his head and looking up at her with a wicked smile teasing his lips.

"Oh, come on," Rachel moans, appearing genuinely put out, "Are you seriously not going to tell me?"

"Nope," he makes a popping sound with his mouth, shaking his head smugly, "Chicks dig the whole enigmatic thing, right?" He shrugs. "I like the air of mystery."

"Please, do yourself a favour and never let me hear you utter the word 'dig,' ever again, alright? It's not 2007," Rachel tells him, pulling a face. "Besides, you know I'll just find out from Donna."

Mike scowls, smirk falling. "Donna wasn't even there-"

"Donna knows all."

"Yeah, but this was-"

" _Everything_."

As Rachel gives a taunting laugh and saunters off in the direction of the all-knowing Goddess, Mike sourly puckers his brows and eventually retorts, "Joke's on you! It wasn't even a secret, anyway!"

* * *

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

* * *

The next day - presumably following her standard gossip-gorge with Donna - Rachel casually drops by his desk to ask how his ankle is faring and when Mike tells her its pesky, non-stop throbbing is turning out to be rather irritating, the ordinarily unconcerned paralegal's face twists in sympathy and she pats him on the head, before rummaging around in her handbag, clearly searching for something in particular, and extracting a brightly-coloured lollipop.

Rachel then offers a kind-hearted smile and his eyebrows fly up in shock as she streaks her fingers through his hair and hands him the sugary treat with a lilted, "Here you go, pet. Feel better soon."

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-o-0-o- Louis -o-0-o-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

Mike is suspicious.

It's his third day back at work since his little accident and not one of the associates have said anything to him. There have been no 'subtle' gibes about his clumsiness, nobody has tried to kick his clutches out from underneath him as he's walking by to knock off his balance. Nor has anyone seized them when Mike's attention is diverted only to burst in hysterics as he absentmindedly reaches for them and falls over.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

He's not sure why they're all keeping their distance, but it's certainly not out of pity.

If he's honest, it's unnerving.

What's worse is that Mike can't forever be on guard waiting for them to strike at any moment. He did his best to be vigilant in the beginning but his commitment soon slipped. He wishes they would just hurry up and get it over and done with already.

Even stranger, his colleagues have rarely even met his gaze these past few days and Mike desperately wants to get to the bottom of it, but none of them will _speak_ to him.

He's at a serious loss as to what to do.

Then, utterly out of the blue, Louis decides to pay him a visit.

"Mike, my office. Now," he barks as he strides past, not even slowing, while the taken aback associate grapples for his crutches. Sweeping his gaze over the bullpen, Mike notes that he _finally_ has the other's attention, but now that he does, he's not feeling all that thrilled about it.

That really should have been his first clue.

When he eventually catches up to Louis, the other man is kind enough to hold the door open for him and as they both take their seats and Mike wipes sweat from his forehead, the junior partner watches him closely in a way that only heightens his nervousness.

Sucking on his inner cheek, Mike bites down on hard enough to draw blood.

"Relax," Louis chuckles, fluttering a careless hand, and since when did he try to put people's minds at ease? Shit, he's firing him, isn't he?

As if sensing his thoughts, he calmly assures, "No-one is getting fired."

The tension between Mike's shoulder blades reluctantly subsides until all that remains is a tiny prick at the back of his neck, alerting him that everything is not as it should be.

"Then why did you want to speak with me?" Mike wonders, wincing as his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries to appear assertive.

It doesn't work.

"You know, you can come to me about anything," Louis remarks, fingers steepled thoughtfully under his chin. "I know, I give you a hard time, Mike, but your sense of security at this firm is very important to me. I want you to feel comfortable working alongside your fellow associates in the bullpen and will do whatever needs be to ensure that you do."

What the hell?

"Where is this coming from?" Mike frowns. "I like working here, Louis. You don't need to do whatever… _this_ is."

"Mike," the junior partner persists, raising his brows in a ' _come on'_ gesture. "It has come to my attention that certain individuals here at Pearson Hardman are taking their hazing rituals a little too seriously. I want you to know that it's been dealt with and disciplinary action has been taken."

Mike shoots up in his chair. "Disciplinary action?" he splutters, jaw hanging. "For what? For _who_? What _on earth_ are you talking about?"

"Gregory and Kyle have been suspended for two weeks, pending further investigation," he explains and Mike's heart drops. "Three days ago, I overheard them discussing a handful of their…" He pauses, lip curling in distaste, "More imaginative past pranks as well as preparing another. I won't go into details, but let's just say, it involved your recent injury."

The younger man blanches.

Louis nods slowly, seeming to agree with all the words that pass silently between them. "Naturally, I was furious. I spoke with some other associates-" Christ, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? "-While most denied participation, some were smart enough to own up then and there. Their punishment isn't quite so severe-"

"Not everyone knew about this!" Mike interrupts, panicked. "There were only a few chief culprits and some others that occasionally joined in!"

"As I am well aware," Louis soothes in a voice much more gentle than he thought the man capable of. "Don't worry, Mike. It has all been taken care of. However," His tone suddenly changes, harder and entirely unyielding, "If anything like this occurs again, you will come and inform me directly, Mike. I won't have you suffering in silence. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," he mumbles, gazing dropping to the floor, before snapping up to the other man's in horror. "Wait, does Harvey know about this?" he gasps.

"I haven't spoken with him yet."

Overwhelmingly relieved, Mike droops as if all of his energy has been zapped out of him. "Oh, thank God," he breathes.

Confused, Louis repeats, "Thank... God?"

"You can't tell him, Louis," Mike blurts, shaking his head wildly. "It's too embarrassing. I'll never live it down!"

The junior partner appears conflicted, biting his lip testily. "Mike, I don't know if that's such a good-"

" _Please_ , Louis?" he begs, whipping out the full force of his puppy-dog eyes. "Please don't say anything?"

There's no way anyone could resist that look.

Heaving a sigh and immediately regretting the decision, Louis grudgingly agrees, "If you wish."

Ten minutes later when Mike returns to the associate's bullpen, he's startled to find that instead of experiencing an inordinate amount of guilt, he feels totally at ease for the first time in weeks.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-o-0-o- Donna -o-0-o-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

_Tuesday:_

* * *

"Hey, Donna," Mike greets sweetly, an animated beam lighting up his face, "Is Harvey in?"

She types continuously on the computer, not sparing a single glance. "Nope."

He falters, smile falling. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Nope."

"Can I… wait... in his office?" Mike hedges, bracing himself for a rejection. "I swear, I won't even _look_ at his records this time."

She pauses, darting fingers halting.

Gazing at him in such open fondness that he actually feels his cheeks warming, Donna bestows a gracious smile. "Sure."

* * *

_Wednesday:_

* * *

"Here are those briefs Harvey wanted," he rasps in a breathy rush of preoccupation, dumping them on the edge of Donna's desk and twisting around to leave without delay. He has another stack of files to be completed and the deadline is fast approaching.

"Mike, wait up!" Donna urges, hurrying around to his side and laying a hand on his back to stop him. "How are you feeling?" she asks gently.

He jerks a little in surprise.

"I'm fine," he replies slowly, brows knitting. "My ankle isn't as painful today."

"That's great, sweetie," she says _non-_ sarcastically. "Just be careful on those crutches, okay? No more barrelling down the hallway in a hurry, you hear me?"

Mike's eyes constrict in mystification, as he tentatively agrees, "Okay…"

"Good boy." Donna taps him on the head. And then she returns to her desk and he carefully makes his way back to his and it's only when he's seated again that it registers.

Did Donna seriously just call him sweetie?

* * *

_Thursday:_

* * *

He's not even surprised when Donna materializes in the bullpen that afternoon and passes him a plain white, square container with a note slapped on top.

He scans it quickly, rolling his eyes after he does so.

_Donna told me I ought to feed you again. If you try to thank me, I_ will _punch you - Harvey_ _  
_

Popping the lid about an inch, Mike leans down and peers into the contents warily.

Above him, Donna laughs at his antics, then elucidates, "It's a bacon and cheese panini, moron. Completely poison-free, I made sure of it."

Okay…This is getting weird.

"Is this… is this a trick?" he can't help but ask.

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head and clucks, "No, of course not. What do you take me for?"

_Honestly? I have no idea._

Unsure if the woman is genuinely hurt or not, Mike schools his features into something resembling more of a smile than a grimace and offers neutrally, "It smells wonderful."

"Good, because you seriously need some more meat on those bones," And there's a strange, reprimanding quality to her tone that Mike doesn't understand in the least. "Now eat up," she suddenly commands, levelling him with a threatening glare, "Before it gets cold."

Then Donna pinches his cheeks and grins, before flicking her hair over her shoulder and strolling away without a backwards glance.

Mike has never been more bewildered in his life.

* * *

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**-o-0-o- Harvey -o-0-o-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

The first time Harvey calls him 'kiddo' as opposed to the usual 'kid,' Mike thinks nothing of it - a simple slip of the tongue, that's all. But the nickname seems to be cropping up more and more often lately.

Still, Mike tells himself it doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's purely a natural progression? After all, there's not much difference. Just a bonus, 'do,' which on it's own doesn't stand for anything, either.

Or perhaps it's a sly dig at his childish, goofy ways? Though, if that were the case, Mike would imagine that the word would be soiled with derision and it isn't. If anything, it sounds bafflingly like an endearment.

Whichever it is, Mike continues to overlook the small adjustment in their relationship. Surely he's just being paranoid? It can't be denial if Mike's only ignoring the signs because _he's_ the one applying some sort of significance to them.

Then come the questions.

The first time, Harvey's enquiry is spoken so causally that Mike replies without thinking.

"Have you eaten yet?" he'd asked absently while flicking through a case file, eyebrows drawn together in total absorption and not even glimpsing up in expectation of an answer.

"No, I'll probably grab a hotdog or something later," he had shrugged while studying several papers of his own. "I've got tons to do."

"I'm heading out for lunch in a little while," Harvey mentioned, standing and buttoning his jacket, "You can tag along. But first, go pawn your work off on one of those Harvard losers."

And that was it. Non-negotiable.

That evening, after an enjoyable lunch where they'd bickered for the entire period, Harvey spots him rubbing his eyes and dismisses him then and there, muttering something about tired associates being useless associates, and it isn't until much later as he collapses onto his bed that Mike realises that his reason doesn't even remotely fly.

He's _constantly_ sleep-deprived and it has never troubled his boss before. In fact, if Mike ever complains about being tired, Harvey is well known for giving him a lecture on, 'Having What It Takes,' or if he's on the move, has a preference for straightforward mottos such as, 'Suck it up,' or even, 'Stop being such a Goddamn wuss.'

And of course, _he_ would never hire a wuss.

The questions are endless.

_"How much sleep are you getting?"_

_"Do you need another break?"_

_"Is your head hurting again?"_

_"You hungry?"_

Mike _thinks_ he means well, and it's sort of nice, even if this continuous interrogation can become a tad embarrassing now that it no longer ceases in other's company.

It's definitely out of character, but Mike attributes his unexpected niceness to a potential mid-life crisis or something and forces himself to stop fixating on it, because God help him if he were to get attached to this considerate-ish version of Harvey.

Mike hates how pleasure bubbles up in his chest when his mentor praises his work or how he has no chance of burying his sheepish smile when this Harvey-impostor actually _ruffles his hair_ in the middle of a courtroom full of witnesses.

This miraculous transformation is never going to last and he doesn't _want_ to enjoy it while it does.

And sure enough - on that Friday - everything soon changes.

Just not in the way he'd begun to expect.

Mike rouses in the morning feeling somewhat… off. He can't quite explain what it is, but his mind is processing information at a much slower rate than is customary and his limbs are curiously heavy, despite the fact that he's gotten more sleep this week than he usually would in two.

His hand is hurting awful bad, but he doesn't dare inspect it out of fear that there might be something amiss. Mike is already running late - late even for him - and doesn't have time to brood over a silly little graze on his palm.

When he eventually arrives, wobbling a little and cursing his stupid ankle, Mike discovers that his desk is a lot less cluttered than normal. It takes several moments for the dissimilarity to dawn on him.

Both Harvey and Louis have assigned him _very_ little paperwork.

He frowns. Had this been the case yesterday, Mike would have marched to their separate offices - well, shuffled - and demanded to know why he is being treated differently. It isn't as if there's nothing to do. Everyone else is up to their eyeballs. But as it is, Mike simply sags on his chair and makes a start on his own reduced share, feeling grudgingly grateful as he bears in mind that he is a bit below par.

He works steadily through lunch, breaking momentarily for a quick coffee run, and doesn't see Harvey - or anyone, really - until after two when he leaves the bullpen on stiff, shaky legs to head down to research for a specific case file.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he's suddenly feeling very weak and his breathing's off and nothing _looks_ right - his vision is all weird and fuzzy.

Tremors raid Mike's hands as they grip the handles of his clutches and his head feels fuller than usual as he suppresses a yawn and wearily swipes at his eyes.

Completely out of nowhere, something - or rather _someone_ \- blocks his path and he awkwardly attempts to evade them, but ends up tripping over his own feet, which does nothing to help his churning stomach.

Hands suddenly grip his upper biceps and Mike finds himself blinking at a hazy shape he thinks might be a person.

_"Mike?_ Mike!" A female's voice rings out beside him and he thinks that, maybe, he ought to pay attention to it. "Are you okay?" Mike nods dazedly. A sharp tut is his response. "No, you're not. Don't lie to me. Do you need me to-"

His legs buckle underneath him and the only thing that keeps him from collapsing is the fact that he is now clinging onto Rachel for dear life, face smushed against her left shoulder.

"Holy crap," she sounds abnormally uneasy, "Look, it's okay, Mike, hold on. We'll get you some help-"

Another wave of dizziness crashes over him and he burbles, "Think I'm gonna just sit down." Which he does, plopping down right there in the middle of the main hallway with a thump, to Rachel's immediate displeasure.

"Oh, God," she mutters, squatting down beside the flopping, wayward associate and holding him upright. "What should I do? What should I- Oh, hey! Harold!" The sudden shout causes him to flinch. "Down here!"

A distant gasp is heard. "Is that- Oh, my God!" Footsteps quickly approach. "What happened? Is he alright?"

"I don't know. He just fell down!" Rachel exclaims. "I need you to go get Harvey, Harold. Could you do that? Please?"

"No problem," he replies with obvious nervousness. "I-I just-"

"It'll be fine, Harold," she tries to reassure him, but it sounds as though she's rolling her eyes. "He's not going to bite."

"He _might_."

"No, he won't. This is Mike we're talking about-"

"Yes, which is exactly why I'm worried! You know what he's like-"

"Guys!" Nothing happens. " _Guys_!" Mike frowns as they fall silent. "Look, I d-don't need H'rvey, okay? M'fine."

"Oh, sweetie," she sighs, a direct contrast to her previous tone. Rachel's voice is as soft as silk as she palms his cheek. "You don't need to put on a brave face. It's okay. Look, Harold is going to go fetch Harvey and everything's going to be just fine, right, Harold?"

"Right," he chimes obediently, before rushing off before Mike can stop him.

"Rach, listen to me," he grumbles, a knot forming in his stomach, because why would she assume he'd want Harvey? Or that Harvey would even care? All of this is seriously beginning to freak him out. "I don't need m'boss to come kiss it all better."

He brushes down his suit and attempts to stand, but she swiftly pushes him back down. "Careful!" she screeches in panic. Then she takes a deep breath and visibly composes herself. "You have to sit still, okay, Mike? Just sit real still for a few minutes 'till we see what's wrong. Can you do that for me?"

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong with _you_?" Mike counters, deeply disturbed by her behaviour even in his general disorientation. "Seriously," he slurs, "It's no big deal."

"Shh," she quietens him, not listening in the least, "Harvey's on his way. He'll be here any second. Don't worry."

_Yeah,_ Mike thinks, _Maybe he'll knock some sense into you. I can't wait to see what shade of purple his face turns when he realises that you're_ stopping _me from going back to work._

His mind to mouth filter mustn't be functioning properly, because Rachel suddenly gapes at him incredulity, so obviously he wasn't quite as silent as he thought.

"You're not thinking straight," she says decisively, and then, in an irritating voice he finds extremely patronizing, "Harvey would _never_ react that way, you silly goose."

"If you say so," he mutters, because it's really not worth arguing over when everything in the room is revolving.

"Rachel? What are you doin-" Another nasally voice enters the equation and as he has now come to expect, blurts, "Is that _Mike_?"

"Yes, Louis," Rachel coolly replies, "And no, I don't know what's going on."

"Does Harvey know?" he immediately frets, while Mike inwardly rolls his eyes.

"I sent Harold to go get him," she informs him, then frowns. "He should really be back by now."

Louis chuckles. "Yes, well, Harvey probably-"

"Went ballistic," she finishes, nodding. "I figured."

"Strange priorities, don't you think?" the junior partner comments as he, too, sinks to the ground in his expensive suit and assists Rachel in sustaining the young man.

"It's the only time I ever see him lose his cool," she shrugs. "And it only lasts for, like, two minutes."

"Eh, on average."

"What the hell are you guys _talking_ about?" Mike asks, because, _really?_ "Harvey wouldn't give two shits if I got hit by a car every single morning for a week as long as I got his work completed at a tolerable standard."

Trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably, the two exchange worried looks over his head.

"Actually, that's not fair," he babbles. "Sometimes he tells that I'm competent and one time, he even let me go home early for my Grammy's birthday." His lips hitch upwards a fraction. "That was nice of him."

Before either bewildered party can reply, another freakin' person is added to the mix.

Damn him for choosing the main fucking corridor.

"Mike, sweetie, are you okay?" Donna coos as she hurries to his side and bends down to his eye-level. She fusses over him, sweeping fingers over his hair, and clearly tallying the most prominent concerns - namely his flushed face, glassy eyes and slumped-over frame. "I am so sorry, honey, but Harvey's not here right now. He had court this morning and only finished up about twenty minutes ago. I called him and he's on his way, but I'm afraid, it's going to take at minimum another ten minutes before he gets here."

"For the last time," he groans drowsily, "I _don't care_." He airily waves a hand. " _He_ doesn't care. What _ever."_

Silence.

At Donna's stricken expression, Louis jumps in with a delightfully untrue, "It's the fever talking. He doesn't know what he's saying."

Except that Mike _does_ know what he's saying and as painful as it is, that's the truth. They need to stop acting as if Harvey is some knight in shinning armour or God forbid, _his father_ , because he's confused enough as it is and Mike really doesn't wish to get his hopes up for nothing.

Harvey is simply going to waltz in here and yell at him for sitting on the ground and being ill and then he'll either order him to get out or go back to work, depending on how generous he's feeling.

It doesn't matter what these naive, little souls believe - Mike knows better.

The next five minutes pass agonizingly slowly and as time wears on, his condition only worsens - to the point where he's not totally aware of anything.

It's not long before he becomes fed up with all of the supportive touches from his co-workers and Mike shoves away from them, unmoved by their hurt or shock or confusion or whatever, finding the nearest wall and crashing against it.

He draws his legs to his chest and pushes his forehead against his knees, hugging them fiercely with one arm while his bandaged hand forms a fist. He then tucks this hand under his nose and chews on his curled thumb while he waits for the person he's forgotten he hadn't wanted.

Mike _really_ wants Harvey and he's sure the sentiment must pass his lips at least once. ("Want H'vey," the ailing kid whimpers. "I know, sweetheart," they collectively grimace, "Hang on, he's coming.")

Then, finally - _finally_ \- an overwrought voice calls out, "Donna, I got your message. Where is he-"

He halts, eyes wide as he takes in the scene.

"Harvey, wait-" Donna catches him by the arm. She pauses, biting her lip. "He's a little…" she trials off, glancing back at the other two with a look he can't decipher. "Mike's not quite himself," she finally settles on. "Just-just don't take everything he says personally, alright?"

Harvey shoots her a suspicious look, tapered with confusion, before turning back to Mike huddled in the corner with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He warily draws nearer - like approaching a wounded animal. The last thing he wants to do is startle the poor kid.

"Hey, buddy," Harvey murmurs, smiling faintly even as his brows furrow. He crouches down in front of Mike's hunched, defensive form and automatically ghosts a hand soothingly through his hair. "Donna here says you aren't feeling too good."

"M'fine," he insists, but it doesn't sound all that convincing when mumbled, "They're bein' st'pid."

"You don't look fine," the other man notes as he begins to rub his back, "What's the matter?"

Mike just nuzzles his kneecap and refuses to answer, while Harvey's heart constricts at the action.

Placing a hand on the kid's damp forehead, Harvey is unsurprised by the intense heat he finds there.

He sighs.

"Mike?" Harvey calls gently, squeezing his shoulder slightly and trying to generate a response from the feverish and increasingly distressed associate. "Do you think it would be alright if I took a quick peek at your hand?" he requests, pitching his voice so that it is unthreateningly smooth and collected. "Just for a bit? I promise, I'll be really gentle."

"Why?" Mike asks blearily, slowly raising his head and shifting so that his hand is protectively cradled to his chest.

"I just wanna see it for a second."

"S'not sore," Mike argues, curling in on himself further. Harvey winces. "Don't need to look at it."

"Please, Mike?" he persists, attempting to cloak his desperation but not quite succeeding. "It's okay if your hand's hurting a little. You can show me. I won't get mad, I swear."

Mike sniffles, gazing at him doubtfully as he rubs his nose with the back of his hand, before very, very slowly offering it to Harvey. Unconsciously, he begins gnawing on his other knuckles.

"Good boy," Harvey praises quietly, ruffling his hair. He carefully unravels the bandage and peels the sticky material back, letting it spill over his fingers.

He hisses.

"Aw, kiddo," the senior partner sighs, gut clenching. "You've really done a number on yourself this time." The skin surrounding the crusted gash is angry and red and swollen, with dribbles of pus oozing from the centre. It's hasn't been cleaned in God knows how long and looks painful as fuck. "How long's it been like this, huh?"

When Mike doesn't say anything, only continues to nip at his skin, - tugging it anxiously between his teeth in a way that causes Harvey to swallow hard at his acute vulnerability - he prods more firmly, "Mike, how long have you been feeling bad?"

There's silence for a moment as Mike chews over this. Literally.

"Dunno," he finally admits, staring at the floor resolutely and shrugging. "Couple days?"

"Why am I not surprised?" Harvey mutters, before supplying to someone in the background, "We need to get him to a hospital. Fast."

Wrapping an arm around the young man's shoulders, he returns his attention to Mike.

"Okay, kiddo," he coaxes, "We're gonna have to move you now, you listening? You can't stay here."

Mike frowns. "How come?"

"'Cause we've gotta go get your hand cleaned up, silly," Harvey explains, ironing out the worry in his expression and forcing his voice upwards in pitch, injecting a light-heartedness he doesn't feel as he adds, "Come on. Up we get."

"Don't wanna," Mike snivels, water pooling in his eyes as he fails to understand why he has to leave the busy hallway.

Harvey hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at Donna, who makes a vaguely reassuring gesture he translates as, _'You're doing great! Just keep doing what you're doing.'_

"It's alright, champ. I'll help you, don't worry."

Scowl deepening, he whines, "No!"

"Mike," Harvey warns, mouth tightening, "Don't be difficult. You wanna feel better, don't you?"

"No," he huffs with a stubborn pout. "M'kay."

"Well, you might be okay, but your hand's certainly not," Harvey relates and seeing that the message isn't getting through, decides to change tactics with a calmly tacked on, "And you know what will happen if you don't get that checked out, don't you?"

Mike peers up at him over the tops of his knees.

Taking in Harvey's significant look, his curiosity gets the better of him, and his eyes quickly narrow.

"W-what?" he inquires timidly.

Harvey leans down closer, glancing off to the side conspiringly, before his gaze snaps back to him.

"If you don't get that cut examined…" He pauses dramatically, voice slow and cautioning, as he announces, "Your hand is going to _turn_ **_green_**."

Mike pales.

"Harvey," Donna quickly intervenes from behind, slapping him on the back of the head in admonishment. "Don't you dare! You're scaring the poor darling."

Eyes wide and jaw slack, Mike gazes at him wonderingly and asks, "Like… like Hulk?"

Okay, so not what he'd expected. But he can work with this.

...Maybe.

"Yup," Harvey nods confidently, " _Exactly_ like the Hulk."

Mike seems to genuinely contemplate this, head titled as his thumb sneaks further into his mouth.

"Only gross?" he ventures, far too interested for his own good.

"Well, yeah. The only difference is, you won't have any super strength or anger issues and the rest of your skin will be normal."

When he puts it that way, it suddenly doesn't sound so cool anymore.

"Don't want a green hand," Mike says in an unsteady voice close to tears. "H'vey, don't want a green hand!"

"Then the solution is simple," the older man remarks, shrugging. "All you have to do is come with me."

It appears his plan worked a little _too_ well, because Mike is still uncertain.

He peeps up at his boss from under his lashes, sucking absentmindedly on his thumb and drool spilling over as he momentarily removes the digit to ask, "Really?"

"Really, really," Harvey grins. He rises to gracefully to his feet and holds out a hand for Mike to take.

"Come on, pal. Better hurry."

As the full implication of his words hit, Mike stands up so fast, Harvey has to quickly reach out to stop him from toppling over.

* * *

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

* * *

"Harvey, when I wake up tomorrow, do you think my hand will be green?" His pinched face is a cross between aghast and oddly fascinated.

"No," Harvey chuckles, flicking on the bedside lamp and adjusting the brightness to the lowest setting. "No, kiddo, I'm pretty sure you're outta the woods at this stage in the game."

After waiting around for two hours to see Harvey's doctor who was insanely busy, Mike was prescribed a short course of antibiotics to take for the next seven days and Harvey was then shown how to redress the wound. He'd already decided that there wasn't a chance in hell that he was letting Mike out of his sight for the foreseeable future, so when the time came to leave, the worried lawyer directed the taxi driver straight to his condo, texting Donna to pick up some things for Mike as the kid in question slobbered all over his shoulder where he'd fallen asleep at the beginning of the journey.

Thankfully, Mike's temperature had been steadily decreasing ever since Harvey coaxed some ibuprofen into him beforehand, but it was still high enough for him to be somewhat apprehensive. By that stage, he no longer minded coming across as 'caring,' because the truth is that he _does_ care and it is a little overwhelming. However he wanted to spin, justify or defend it, Harvey was taking Mike home and that's all there was to it.

Together, they'd watched a few episodes of Doctor Who and Sherlock, as the pup curled up on the sofa, head resting on Harvey's lap as he brushed a hand through his hair.

It was all rather peaceful - though Harvey suspects that tomorrow when the kid's not quite so out of it, there will be a definite fight for independence.

A fight he's not sure why he wants so badly to win.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, the senior partner steps back and straightens, heading for the door and adding, "Now no more talk of green hands, okay? Donna will kill me."

"What about my feet?" Mike ponders. "Will they turn green?"

Harvey smothers a smile as he turns back.

"No, your feet will be fine," he spells out patiently. "They don't have any scratches on them."

"What about my legs? They have scratches," he points out, unwilling to let the subject drop.

_Oh, for the love of God._

Harvey scrubs a hand over his face and reluctantly agrees, "I suppose they do. But not the same _kind_ of scratches."

Mike's mouth forms an ' _O'_. "So I might never get that same kind of scratch again?" he clarifies, frowning thoughtfully and clutching the bed sheets closer. "The one that turns people green?"

"That's right. They're special scratches."

He had thought that this was full-proof logic, but apparently he was wrong, because Mike only becomes more agitated, nibbling this time on an index finger. "But how are you meant to _know_?" And that's a fair question, Harvey reasons, but one he most certainly does not have an answer to, since he's too damn tired to make one up.

"You just do," he half-heartedly appeases, becoming more irritable by the second against his better judgement. His voice is curt when he says, "Just go to sleep, kiddo."

" _You_ know, though, don't you, Harvey? Y-you'll tell me, won't you?" And goddamn it if that _trying-really-hard-to-be-brave-but-obviously-terrified_ expression doesn't make him feel exceptionally guilty, piercing a hole in his unjust annoyance and deflating his rigid posture instantaneously.

"Of course, I will," the older man softly assures. He settles down on the edge of the bed and begins stroking the kid's hair in comfort. "No-one's turning green on my watch."

Fears temporarily placated, Mike focuses his attention on greater questions, like: "Why green, though? Green is such an icky colour, Harvey. Why not yellow or blue - blue is my favourite," he says like Harvey doesn't already know as much. "O-or what about orange or p-?" He suddenly gasps. "Harvey, is this why bruises are sometimes purple?"

He scarcely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

"No, Mike, that's different," he responds mostly evenly, "It's natural for bruises to change colour."

And all of a sudden Mike's frightened again.

Big blue eyes boring into his, Mike says anxiously, "B-but you can check them, too, can't you? To be sure?"

"I can indeed," he smiles. "Now, close your eyes and try to get some sleep, buddy." He drapes the blanket over him and pushes silky hair out of his face. "I'll be right across the hall if you need me."

"M'kay," Mike yawns, clumsily knuckling his eyes. "Night, Harvey."

"Goodnight, Mike," Harvey murmurs, gazing at the sleepy kid with tender eyes as warmth blossoms in his chest. "Sweet dreams."

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_Thank-you very much for reading._

_It is a bit longer than I expected - but oh, well. Hope you enjoyed it :)_


	3. Try Your Best

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**CHAPTER TWO:**

Try Your Best

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**A/N:** I know that this is all very confusing - hell, even I have my moments of befuddlement - but please bear with me. Everything should be explained in the chapter after this. To clarify, though, Mike is not 'deaged' as of yet, in the sense that he's suddenly ten years younger. It's a gradual process. I do tend to focus primarily on the reactions of those around him, which I know a lot of people are completely bewildered by, and an explanation will be provided for this also. It _will_ be weird, though. That much I can tell you. Consider this an official warning ;)

 **Disclaimer** : _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Moaning into a downy pillow, Mike rolls over and wriggles under the duvet he'd kicked off amid fitful splashes of hot and cold, now crumpled to his right, the movement causing drool to pool over onto the thumb that is - hang on.

…Rooted in his mouth?

That couldn't be.

Mind still clogged with sleep, Mike pokes the soggy digit with his tongue and ascertains that - yup, his thumb his definitely wedged in there, and has been for some time judging by the deepened creases.

All of a sudden, he is wide awake.

And Mike doesn't like the feeling.

His eyes dart open, swinging around the pitch-black room, and when the stifling darkness doesn't fade, Mike's breaths stutter to a halt.

Curling his hands into taut fists, the desire to plant his thumb in his mouth is unbearable as he lies there, twitching in the silence and trying not to imagine sinister, murky creatures prowling the shadows of the bedroom.

An unfamiliar feeling claws up his dry, itchy throat…

Images wait to taunt him as he closes his eyes…

His heart races while his stomach experiments with straining somersaults.

It takes Mike a while to figure out that he's really just scared of the dark.

He feels so stupid.

Not that that stops him from teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Mike?" a faintly concerned voice probes as light spills from the doorway, "What are you doing up?"

Mike jumps about a mile in the air, yanking his hand away from where it had been deviously crawling towards his mouth and hiding his slippery thumb behind his back.

Unfortunately, the abrupt action results in another horrid dizzy spell and he lurches forward.

"Oh no, you don't." Hands quickly flatten against his torso and lower spine, gently easing the disorientated young man onto the strange, bobbing planes of what he eventually comes to recognize as a man's chest. The mattress sinks downwards and soothing fingers arc through his limp hair.

"Careful, kiddo," the voice that is mysteriously reminiscent of Harvey's rebukes, soft and inflected. "You have to take it easy. I don't want you getting any nasty bumps on your head, understand?" As he speaks, one hand lightly runs up and down his back. "I can't imagine that'd be much fun."

"H'vey?" Mike frowns, and for some reason, his words trip up and fall together, groggy and inarticulate.

"Shh…" he responds, beginning to sway slightly. "It's alright. Close your eyes." He reaches around Mike to capture something from the bedside table. Harvey then expertly massages along Mike's jaw-line, persuading his agitatedly gritted teeth to loosen long enough for him to push a cool thermometer beyond his lips.

"Atta boy." Turning his head in a pitiful attempt to dislodge the foreign item, a hoarse whimper slips as Mike sleepily burrows into Harvey.

"Looks like your fever's gone up a bit," Harvey mutters to himself and for the life of him, Mike can't begin to understand what's going on. What...? How... What's he doing here? _Where_ is here?

_Is this even real?_

"I'm sorry, buddy," Harvey whispers, inspecting the readings as he strokes his hair. "I'll bet you're not feeling all that great at the moment, huh?"

Well, now that he mentions it, his head _is_ pounding a little excruciatingly.

"Here we go, junior. Drink up."

Next thing Mike knows, the chilled rim of a glass is being slowly tipped back against his mouth, water trickling down his throat so that he has no choice but to swallow. His chest expels a prickly cough much to his displeasure and Mike weakly cries out as his head revolts at the increase of pressure. There's rustling and then a couple of sugar-coated pills are being gulped down, too.

A thumb skims his cheek, erasing hot tears he hadn't even realized had fallen.

He wants... he wants...

He doesn't know _what_ he wants.

Mike's tired and itchy and he hurts all over - _hurts so much -_ And there's this terrible, low keening sound, and Mike has a horrible hunch that it is originating from his own quivering throat.

_Don't leave me._

He grips a fistful of silky fabric and holds on for dear life.

"Shh," He's being rocked again, "It's okay, kiddo. Everything's fine. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I promise, I'm not planning on leaving." To Mike's astonishment, his boss almost sounds.. frazzled. "Just please, _please_ stop crying. I don't think I can stand it much longer."

...Huh.

 _S_ o this _is_ a dream, then?

Makes sense, all things considered.

Ha, like there's any way that _he_ would _cry_. In front of his **_boss,_** no less.

Mike hiccups.

"I know, I know - it's horrible." The voice is sickly sweet and the words are mumbled against his clammy temple, but Mike clings to it nonetheless.

 _"Please,_ Mike, you have to calm down. That's got to be murder on your headache. Come on, work with me here. You're going to make yourself sick."

Peeling back his sticky lids and peeking up hazily, Mike is staggered by the sight of an anxious person accompanying the anxious voice.

"H'vey..." he snuffles, awkwardly flinging a hand at his boss' face, aided by no real strength, which Harvey easily catches with his own.

"Right here, bud."

Tiredly shaking his head, he says, "N-no sick."

Harvey doesn't answer.

"No be sick," Mike mumbles once more, hand to his mouth. "M'kay."

This time the older man's brows bunch together in a troubled frown. Yet, before he can go about retesting the boy's temperature, Mike's chest undertakes a forceful heave and that's all the warning Harvey receives.

The halted sounds themselves are nauseating, never mind the stench, and even after the young associate rids himself of every single bite he'd taken the previous week, his stomach sportingly perseveres - almost to deter him from ever eating again - until all Mike feels is the burn of acid in the back of throat.

He's crying again - though whether or not he ever actually broke off in the first place is anyone's guess - but it's more delirious, husky whinging than anything else.

Harvey quickly nips to the bathroom and wets a washcloth, and on his return, he dabs the kid's forehead and wipes around his mouth.

With Mike sprawled between the bed and the floor, head lolling as he breathes hard and writhes weakly in agony, Harvey sets about stripping him of his sullied clothes. Chucking these in the wash, he gathers a clean pair of pyjama bottoms and an old, ratty t-shirt he never wears, then quickly slips it over Mike's head, guiding his arms through the correct holes with little help from the half-conscious boy and pulling on the bottoms.

Harvey doubts Mike is aware of much at this point, as he finishes cleaning the floor and changing the bed sheets - even when the young man begins rambling disjointedly, calling out for Harvey and begging him not to leave in such frenzied desperation that it takes all of Harvey's willpower to complete the task without running to his side and hugging the ill boy close.

"It's okay, Mike," he murmurs, heart faltering, "I'm right over here. I'm not going anywhere."

Afterwards, the lawyer bundles his associate in a thick, cosy blanket Donna had brought around earlier, along with a few other items Mike may require, before settling the pup against him and tucking his head under his chin.

Overcome with exhaustion, Mike eventually drifts off to sleep, but it's so light and restless that Harvey stays with him for a further hour, singing softly under his breath while he gently brushes the kid's dishevelled locks, and wondering: of the two of them, just who precisely is he soothing?

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The following morning, Mike is somewhat more lucid.

He staggers towards Harvey's couch in a daze, ignoring the protests of his ankle, and plops down.

Not only does he feel rotten, but Mike's sudden realisation that he has stayed the night at his boss's home and has _no_ _clue_ how that came to pass, has left him feeling considerably ill at ease. He's been here before, of course, but on neither occasion had Harvey given any indication that he was welcome. In all actuality, the older man had essentially banished him to the living area with an abundance of files and strict orders not to move unless there was a dire emergency.

He'd said (and Mike's quoting directly here), "Oh, and I know you'll probably be fraught with temptation, but could you strive to refrain from touching any of my most mind-blowing things? I heard the residue of neediness can be hard to scrub off."

The young associate hadn't taken offence - his prior thin-skinned inclinations now inured to these supercilious remarks - but had fretted about the prospect of damaging something and being instructed to replace it the entire time.

Shivering slightly, Mike wraps his arms around himself and debates making his way back to his apartment. He can't bike and wearing clothes that are definitely not his own, is obviously short of cash, so catching a cab is a clear no-go. Figuring it's early - the sunlight soaking the balcony radiant and fresh - Mike supposes that he _could_ walk the distance, but it's a long way and he's barefoot.

After ten straight minutes of mulling over the pros and cons, his genius solution is, "To hell with it, I can _so_ walk that far." Never mind the fact that the ability to walk that far is not really part of the dilemma. And that if it _were_ , then he would undoubtedly lose.

Following a dubious moment where he'd stood and his legs nearly gave way, Mike slowly toddles towards the door and tries to yank it open. It doesn't unbolt. A few more unrewarding pulls and Mike is forced to re-evaluate the means of his breakout.

Alright, so the front door is vetoed, but how about…

Mike eyes the balcony, deliberating.

Maybe there's a fire escape?

He stumbles towards it impulsively and is pleasantly surprised when the door unlocks. One more step…

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" a panicked Harvey blurts from the hallway, hurrying to his side and shutting the door firmly.

"I… the-the balc'ny…" Mike explains unintelligibly.

"Mike, you are _not_ to go out there unsupervised, you hear me?" the older man gruffly prohibits, breathing roughly. "Not ever."

Unsatisfied with this ruling, he pouts. "Why?"

"Because it's not safe," Harvey tells him, dragging the confused boy to the couch and pushing him down. Immediately, he heads towards the guest room, fishing around in a drawer and plucking the bedding from the unruly bed, proceeding to smother Mike in them. "You're freezing," he accuses, arranging the blanket so that it protects Mike's ears, before producing a pair of Avengers-themed socks and stretching them over the kid's icy feet. "What are you doing out of bed, anyhow?" he soon chides, his dark eyes disapproving.

"I-it's six thirty," Mike informs him, yawning hugely.

"I am well aware of what time it is thanks to you," Harvey grumbles. "Though I don't see what that has to do with anything."

He shrugs. "Need to go."

"'Need to go?'" Harvey repeats with scrunched brows. "What in God's name gave you that idea?"

"U'ually go to th-the firm Satu'days," Mike coughs.

Harvey's expression clears.

Nodding in realisation, he gives a regretful smile. "I know you do," he hums. "But not today, okay? You need to rest and you can't do that while studying bylaws."

"Can too," he argues, sliding into a more comfortable position as his eyes flutter shut.

An amused smirk filling his voice, the senior partner indulges, "Sure, you can, kiddo."

Moments later, he's out.

The next time he wakes, Mike is _actually_ lucid.

His fever must have broken at some point, because his mind finally feels clear for the first time in days.

A quick glance at his hand tells him that his bandages have already been redressed and after a longer look around the condo, Mike spies a glass of water and two painkillers on the coffee table. His ankle is screaming awful bad, so he knocks these back gratefully, and with his crutches nowhere in sight, resigns himself to staying put on the sofa. It's not ideal, though, as boredom soon begins to set in. With little else to do, Mike picks up the nearby remote control and spends the next half hour channel surfing. He's too tired to commit to anything in particular, regardless of how impressed by the broad array of films and TV shows on offer he may be, and has to shake himself on numerous occasions to prevent dropping off to sleep.

Mike wishes he had something a tad more productive to keep him busy, but has to content himself with uninterestedly watching the TV with a bleary, unwavering gaze and snuggling into the soft material of his blanki-

Mike bolts upright and hastily scrambles away from the precariously soothing throw.

 _Blankie?_ he shudders, sickened. Where the hell did _that_ come from?

"Mike? Kiddo, what's wrong?"

Swivelling around, he learns that Harvey is seated at the breakfast bar working from his laptop, apparently keeping an eye on him, and likely has been for a while. He hadn't even realised that he'd come in.

"Nothing," he grunts, sinking into the couch. "It's nothing."

Harvey isn't buying the lie, but luckily doesn't pursue it.

Instead, rising to his feet and turning to the refrigerator, he changes the subject altogether. "I made soup earlier. Do you think maybe you could manage a few spoonful's?" When the younger man simply pulls a face in response, he adds sternly, "You haven't eaten anything," and Mike knows then he hasn't got much choice in the matter.

"Sounds great," he says wryly.

The rest of the day passes similarly, with Harvey fussing over every little thing - from obsessively taking Mike's temperature to fretting over every paltry cough and stifled yawn with endless inquiries over the state of his physical well-being. When Mike dares approach the subject of going back to his apartment, Harvey is utterly uncompromising in his refusal, shooting the idea down at once. Mike would have argued harder had he not being feeling so unwell and had there not been a genuine possibility that Harvey would have a panic-induced heart attack if he did.

Though the worst part of the day, hands down, comes when Mike has to go the bathroom.

"Hey, Harvey?" he calls, "Do you happen to know what I did with my crutches?"

His boss frowns, thinking. "You know, I'm not actually sure, buddy. I must have forgotten to lift them before we left Pearson Hardman."

"Yeah... about that.." Mike says curiously, "How _did_ I get here?"

Harvey's scowl deepens. "You don't remember?"

Shrugging, he returns, "Should I?"

He can recall flashes here and there, but the events are too muddled and just plain _weird_ to follow. It's too difficult to know what was real and what wasn't.

"You _were_ pretty out of it," Harvey concedes, smirking. "I'll give you a run down of the basics. After the cut on your hand got infected, you collapsed in the hallway. Rachel found you, got some associate to go get me, who then told Donna," he lists in a bored tone while scrolling through emails on his cell. "Donna rang me, but I was otherwise engaged, and by the time I got there, you were in such bad shape that I took you straight to the hospital. There, you were given some low dose pain meds and antibiotics. After that, we came back here." Glancing up, Harvey shrugs, "That's pretty much it."

There are so many things wrong with that scenario that Mike doesn't know where to begin. What he says, though, is, "But back to the crutches predicament. If I didn't have them, then how did I get around?"

Harvey presents him with his most dry, patronizing look. "Because I carried you," he replies slowly as if between his ears, Mike only has empty space. "For the most part, anyway. They lent us a wheelchair in the hospital, which was a good thing too, because you were salivating _all_ over my shoulde-"

"Hold up," Mike interjects, appalled, "You did _what?"_

He rolls his eyes.

"Mike, you weigh about as much as a small teenager." Then his expression abruptly turns serious. _Too_ serious. "How much food do you eat, exactly? Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Whatever it is, I'm doubling it. In fact, I've been contemplating making plans to see a nutritionist. Your needs are clearly not being met and even I can tell, you are significantly underwei-"

"Listen," Mike says tersely, bringing Harvey's freak-out (which was freaking Mike out) to a temporary standstill. "I don't need some damn lecture on my diet or lack thereof. What I _need_ is to go to the bathroom. So.. yeah." He starts to stand, but the other man quickly forces him back down.

"Did you not just hear what I said?" Harvey angrily objects. "I'll text Donna. She can collect the damn clutches. But for now, there is no way I am letting you walk on that ankle. You caused enough damage earlier on your little escapade."

"It's not that far-"

"It's far enough," he declares decisively. "Here, let me help you."

"I don't need _or want_ your help-"

"You'd rather soil yourself right here, then?" Harvey questions, eyebrows hoisted up in challenge. "Because that's what's going to happen."

"You're bluffing," Mike states shrewdly, eyes narrowed as he juts out his chin. "This couch is worth, what? A couple hundred thousand? _"_ He smirks, running a hand shamelessly along the armchair. "You'd really let me destroy this beautiful, _genuine,_ Italian leather?" As Harvey's bottom lip thins, he chuckles. "Didn't think so."

Eyes skewing in amusement, Harvey clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "Do you honestly think you can out-stubborn me, rookie? In a battle of wills, I _always_ come out on top."

"Well, you do have a fondness for settling," Mike points out. "How about we cut a deal?"

"Are you kidding me?"

A pause, then:

"I really need to pee."

Harvey outright laughs at that. "Then what do you propose we do? Because, evidently, I have the advantage here. You're a slave to the whims of your body. All I have to do is wait you out."

"But then you'd lose."

"Not if I time it right," he refutes with a playful grin. "The longer you put it off, the more desperate you'll become, until the shame of having your boss assist you is nothing compared to your need to go."

" _Or_ ," Mike pipes up, looking pensive. "I could just go now?"

"Either way, you're still peeing in front of me. At least in the bathroom, I can look the other way." Crossing his arms, Harvey gives every impression of sticking around for a while. "Besides, who do you think will have to help clean you up, anyway?" Mike grimaces. "Face it, kiddo, your plan is riddled with flaws."

"Dammit," he mutters.

"Look," Harvey's face suddenly softens. "It's not so bad. I'm not judging you, Mike. It's okay to ask for help."

"I wouldn't say, I _asked_ exactly-"

The other man fires him a look that soon has him quieting.

"Come on." He wraps an arm around the pup's shoulders and gently lifts him up. "Let's just get this over with."

"And then we never speak of it again?" Mike sheepishly asks, tugging hopefully on his lip.

Harvey smiles.

Bracing himself for a wealth of awkwardness, he wholeheartedly agrees, "And then we never speak of it again."

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"Harvey, it's Monday. I bike to work _every_ Monday. In fact, I bike to the firm _every day_ regardless of the weather or how little sleep I've gotten. A little drizzle like that? It isn't going to make a damn difference." He wants to scream in frustration, but settles for nipping his fingers. "I'm used to it."

"Mike, you are not cycling and that's it," Harvey once again lays down the law. "Keep in mind, I don't even want you in today _at all._ I can easily withdraw the opportunity if you continue with this inanity."

The threat, while fostering potential, achieves little. Mike knows that the now-transparent lawyer could never hold out for long. Harvey will want to have him just a stone's throw away, where he can keep tabs on him.

If not, there'd be phone calls between meetings and a quick check-up during lunch. And then there's all of the incessant agonising over whether or not Mike has eaten all of his five-a-day and pacing because Mike might not have brushed his teeth or may have slipped while in the shower and just generally disrupting everything and everyone around him with his ludicrous worrying.

Okay, so he _may_ be exaggerating a little. But that's the idea.

"I have a perfectly good driver who you are going to make use of. I will not have you catching your death out there."

On second thought, maybe not.

"Please, spare me the melodramatics," Mike groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "You've been smothering me all weekend. I don't want to hear it!"

"Don't act like I'm some sort of crazy person, harping on about something without reason," Harvey responds irritably. "You've been ill due to the wound that _you_ didn't clean getting infected. Excuse me for being slightly sceptical."

"Are you seriously _blaming_ me?" Mike splutters.

"No, I'm merely _implying_ that maybe if you'd actually changed the bandages, oh, I don't know, _once or twice_ , then you could have avoided an unpleasant situation."

"That's not fair," the younger man exclaims, eyes flashing. "I _forgot,_ okay? Jeez, I made one tiny mistake. But guess what? I paid for it." Taking a deep breath, he swipes at his cheeks and sniffles. "I apologise if my feverish rampaging was some huge inconvenience for you."

Deflating instantaneously, Harvey winces. "Mike, you weren't inconveniencing anyone, I swear. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, ducking his head to hide his smile.

Worked like a charm.

"We'd better get going," Mike suggests, calculatingly hoarse. "Wouldn't want to be late."

"Right," Harvey nods, brows squeezing. "Of course."

The drive to the Pearson Hardman is silent and congealed and by the time they pull up outside the firm, it obviously becomes too much for the senior partner, who cautiously proposes, "Maybe later we could watch a film or something?" He clears his throat and casually buttons his jacket as they step out, but the young associate can virtually smell his guilt. "We'll make a night of it. Anything you want. I'll even abstain from arguing about your crappy taste."

Well, whaddya know? This could be pretty sweet...

"Anything I want?" Mike grins.

Harvey rolls his eyes, beginning to walk briskly as Mike trails behind.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say?" he observes with distaste souring his tone. "Because if so, then the deal's off, and not even Donna will be able to bully me out of commenting on that embarrassing haircut. Just saying, I've seen better hair clogging up the shower drain."

"Thanks," he mutters, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the image.

"No need to thank me, Mike," Harvey smirks. "It was my pleasure."

"Don't I know it."

After a few more moments of companionable silence, his boss offhandedly asks, "So... movies?"

"I'm thinking _The Dark Knight_. Can't go wrong with Batman."

Harvey curbs the urge to groan.

Pretty sweet, indeed.

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A few days later and the novelty has most certainly worn off.

The one night that Mike managed to wheedle his way back to his and he ends up at Harvey's place after a disastrous visit with his Grammy, falling asleep before eight _again._ And that's after having snoozed for an hour that day in Harvey's office - a daily occurrence ever since he nodded off at his desk that Monday.

There are little things, too. He can't seem to concentrate for very long and has been caught daydreaming more than once, doodling on the margins of various paperwork. He _never_ seems to have to shave anymore and just yesterday, Mike had to double-check the label on his shirt because it swamped him.

He's living a nightmare.

Every day, Mike stands in front of the mirror and tries to pinpoint what could be wrong. Logically, his appearance hasn't changed all that drastically, bar the peculiar absence of his usual six o'clock shadow, so he shouldn't really pay it much heed. Yet, intuition tells him otherwise.

He's wary, but Mike can't fathom why.

Then, on Wednesday, Mike is side-blinded by yet another incident, which honestly, he would like to comment on as little as possible.

As has become routine, the young associate is tugging his blanket over his body and curling up on Harvey's couch for a quick power-nap at noon, when the man himself wanders in and instead of making a beeline for his desk, Harvey hesitantly approaches him.

"Hey, kiddo," he greets with misleading lightness, ruffling his hair and taking a seat. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Hmm?" the sleepy pup yawns, fisting his eyes. "What is it?"

"You know how sometimes you find it tough getting to sleep even with the nightlight on?" he asks, inattentively rubbing the kid's back.

Mike tenses.

"...Yeah?"

"Well... I think I may have a solution."

Tugging on his ear, he says doubtfully, "You do?"

"Uh-huh." Harvey nods. "Thing is, though," And he should have _known_ there'd be a catch, "I need you to keep an open mind about it, alright? Can you promise me that?"

Not liking the sound of this one bit, Mike hedges, "I dunno..."

"It's nothing _bad._ You just mightn't like the _idea_ of it, but once you give it a go..." he trails off. Deciding to just power on, Harvey reaches around the couch and digs up a small bag. Letting it flop in his lap, stooping downwards to one side, the loose material dips to reveal untamed tuffs of grey fur.

"What..." Mike delicately screws up his face. "Is that?"

"I believe it's a wolf," Harvey ever-so-helpfully points out. "Fierce and protective and all that jazz, right?"

"No, I meant, what is it _doing_ here? Did a client leave it behind or something?" It's astonishing what denial can do to people's brain functions. It's like the last five minutes of conversation have been sucked from his memory.

"No," Harvey says slowly. "I bought it for you."

"Ew, why?"

"To give you some company. It's like a friend and a playmate and possibly even a sense of security all rolled into one."

"That's stupid, Harvey," Mike huffs, mouth poking out. "It'll never work. It's ugly and gross and oh-" He pauses, and Harvey doesn't know how a pause can be so sarcastic, but this one certainly is. " _Not alive_."

In his head, however, he immediately christens the lousy stuffed animal Jellybean.

"Help me out here," the older man requests, frowning, "Tell me, how exactly is this furry little thing _gross_?"

"The eyes are too big and that shade of blue is weird."

"Now a colour can be weird?"

"This one is," Mike insists. "Weirdest blue I've ever seen."

"I think you're just tired," Harvey laughs. "Let me know how you feel in an hour's time."

But he doesn't, because there's no way in hell he'll ever broach the subject again.

In fact, later when it's time for bed and he pulls back his duvet to unearth a ridiculously fluffy wolf with an odd kind of charm about him, Mike doesn't say a thing.

* * *

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

By Friday, Mike is ready to take drastic action.

He's fed up being treated like an incompetent little kid and to some extent, _acting_ like an incompetent little kid, and overall, his brain is simply fried.

He does his best to grin and bear it, but when push comes to shove, some capricious part of him snaps.

"Good job on those briefs, Mike," Harvey casually compliments that evening, taking a dreg of coffee while toying with a baseball, tossing it up into the air and effortlessly catching it. "They were really well done."

"No, they weren't," Mike refutes without thinking. "There are twelve separate mistakes that I neglected to rectify and a clause I had no intentions of citing - one which, funnily enough, could save our client no less than ten million."

Harvey gives a violent jerk of surprise.

When Mike doesn't renounce his daring claim, the senior partner shakes his head in amazement. Assigning Mike his full attention, he subsequently sets aside both his ball and cup.

"Let me get this straight," he says slowly, disbelief written in his features as he puzzles it out, "You _deliberately_ half-assed those briefs?"

Recoiling slightly at the subdued tone, Mike licks his lips and nods uneasily.

"What on _earth_ would possess you to _do_ something like that?" Harvey questions in bewilderment.

Eyes glued to the ground, he shrugs rigidly and absentmindedly chews on his thumbnail.

"I wanted to see if you would yell at me," Mike mumbles, shuffling. Glancing up and gingerly clearing his throat, he states quietly, "Which... you didn't."

Sensing that he is vulnerable to scrutiny, Harvey turns away and rubs his chin, giving a scathing scoff. "This is ridiculous-"

"Why?" The softly spoken question, melted with uncertainty, almost renders Harvey speechless. "Why didn't you? Yell at me, I mean. You should. I deserve it."

"It wasn't of any consequence," Harvey explains with strenuous nonchalance, "I caught the oversights reasonably easily-"

"No, the _real_ reason," the younger man bites out, a muscle in his jaw juddering.

"Because..." He hesitates, blowing out a weary breath. "Because you seem to be having difficulties focusing lately," Harvey downplays with mild indifference, but Mike doesn't miss the way his shoulders tense and his brows tighten. "And I didn't want you to feel bad about overlooking a few errors."

"A few _glaring_ errors."

"Maybe so. Does it really matter?"

"Of course it matters!" Mike cries incredulously. "What... Why…" He falters, looking dreadfully young and timid and perhaps a little defeated. Harvey doesn't think the boy even notices when he proceeds to gnaw on his clenched hand, thrusting his knuckles against his right canines. "Why the hell are _doing_ this to me?"

Harvey is clearly baffled as hell, unsure at what point this started going downhill and at a clear loss as to how to repair it.

Fisting his immaculate hair, he demands, "Doing _what_?"

"Pretending like you care all of a sudden!" Mike bursts out and, man, it is such a relief to say the words aloud at last. "You tended to me when my stupid cut got infected, you let me stay at your con-" he cuts off, mouth wrenching into an ugly sneer, "Correction, _forced_ me to stay at your swanky, upmarket condo. Not to mention, all of the badgering about meals, banning me from cycling out of some absurd, misplaced 'concern,' and constantly invading my personal space with all of these bizarrely kind touches that are yeah, comforting and reassuring and all that crap, I guess, but utterly uncharacteristic!" Mike rhymes off, gaining momentum.

Meanwhile, the senior partner can do little more than listen on in shock.

"Must I _seriously_ jog your memory, Harvey?" he asks, eyebrows raising contemptuously. "You _don't_ **_care_**."

Suddenly, his voice wobbles and just like that, all of his bravo seems to up and disappear. He collapses onto the couch, falling forward with his elbows hitting against his knees and holding his face in his hands.

"So you're goddamn right it matters," Mike whispers, voice breaking. " _Why_ are you suddenly acting like you give a damn or something? I just-I just _don't **understand**_." It simply isn't _logical_ and he can't wrap his mind around a concept so fantastical as being... like, _loved,_ or something.

 _Especially_ by someone like Harvey.

Best damn closer in the city, sure - but absolutely hopeless when it comes to anything tenuously emotional.

During Mike's rant, Harvey had been becoming paler and paler and by the end, he is positively horror-stricken.

He swallows with extreme difficulty. "Mike…"

"And it isn't just you, either!" Mike continues to vent, missing the agonised glint in the older man's eyes. "It's Donna and it's Rachel and my _grandmother_. Hell, even Louis is in on the act!" He leaps up and begins wirely pacing, gesturing wildly in all directions. "Just tell me. What am I missing? What could possibly be in this for you? _Any_ of you? I'm-I'm like the _worst_ candidate to pull a prank of this magnitude on, because you _know_ me, Harvey. I'm this pitiful, attention-craving idiot with serious abandonment issues and a hell of a lot of affection amassed that I _want_ to give out freely but can't because in the end, I don't really have anyone _to_ give it to."

He gasps.

"You've said so yourself. God, you even _joke_ about it. Quite a lot, actually. Or at least," he amends, frowning, "You used to. My point is, I get attached and it's horrible and I just… I just... I don't understand," he finishes in this tiny, heart-wrenching voice.

"Mike...I _do_ care-"

" _Bull_ shit!"

"Like hell it is!" Harvey growls, torn between wanting to either to embrace or throttle him. " _Christ_ , _Mike,_ do you seriously think I'd do something like that? That this is some sort of farce? A _game_ concocted for my own amusement?"

And dammit if his expression isn't so painfully open, so achingly _raw_ , that Mike's chest twists.

"Because you _know_ me, Mike," Harvey says, turning his own words against him, "I don't _want_ to care. But _you_... you just sneaked past all of my defences and freaking forced me to anyway, because you're just that damn lovable! I don't want to care, Mike. But I do," He stops, breathing shallowly, "I really, really do."

"You're just saying that." Because he wants it to be true, - so, _so_ much - but he's been duped before.

"Do you think it was _easy_ for me that first night when you were in so much damn pain that you cried so brutally you vomited all over yourself?" Harvey contests, a merciless potency to his tone. " _Remember that?"_ he chuckles, flippant and harsh. _"No?_ Well, I do. And it _killed_ me. You kept gagging and whimpering and muttering my name over and over and it _hurt,_ Mike. Because I couldn't do a goddamn thing."

Mike's eyes burn and he wants to cry - he truly does - but he doesn't. He doesn't but it's a damn near thing. _Damn_ near.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he eventually chokes.

Harvey's face contorts. "Mike, nothing's wrong with y-"

"Don't patronise me!" he snaps. "Quit fucking patronizing me! You know damn well that something hasn't been right since that mishap at that lab two weeks ago! Just _look_ at me, for Pete's sake. Take a good _long_ look. I bloody well dare you to."

The reminder of his recent physical changes are enough to push him over the edge.

He can scarcely breathe.

"Mike, buddy," Harvey says evenly, though his own composure is less than concrete. "You need to calm down-"

"Don't tell me to _calm **down**_!" He's getting hysterical and he knows it, but his emotions are all over the place and he can't reign them in. "I've shrunk at least three inches! My suits barely fit me anymore! You instigated a blasted naptime because I tire so freaking easily!"

" _Mike_ -" Harvey takes a step forward with his palms raised in an hollow gesture of placation, sending him skittering back.

"I-I can't do this," he suddenly declares. "I'm sorry, but I can't pretend like this situation's not royally fucked-up for one more flamin' second."

"We can talk about this. There's no need to do anything rash-"

But he's already gone.

Retreating quickly from his boss who is rapidly becoming something _other -_ heavily invested in something neither of them understands even distantly - and a wide-eyed Donna who's blinking rapidly, Mike races out of Harvey's office.

Feeling like he's going to puke any second, he sprints to the elevator, which is miraculously unoccupied, and fidgets the entire way down. The second the doors open, he springs free, dashing into the night.

Voices calling after him all the way - down streets, through shortcuts, around corners, under streetlights, _resounding_ in his head - Mike runs and runs and runs.

* * *

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

While Mike was growing up, one of his Grammy's biggest fears was that he was missing out.

Every year without fail until he entered high school and Father's Day crept up and he'd be forced to paste glue onto coloured cards with a lopsided, tissue-papered heart slapped on top, Mike would arrive home mildly upset, - his parents naturally on the forefront of his mind - as he scrunched the glittery drivel up and lobbed it at the trash. And his Grammy would ask if he were okay and he'd shrug it off, because, really - it was just a meaningless slice of paper folded into a generic greeting card, beaming and bright and tender with naivety, containing none of the sentiments Mike wishes he'd had the chance to unburden.

Had his Dad been alive, he would have been lucky to have him even glance at it. It wouldn't have meant anything back then and it certainly didn't have to mean anything this time 'round, simply because he wasn't there to throw the damn thing away himself.

And even though his Grammy would nod and paste on a pleasant smile, Mike could tell that she would never allow herself to entertain the belief that he was truly okay while every fibre of her being insisted that it _mattered_ even when it didn't matter to him.

He might not have fully comprehended the magnitude of his loss, but she most definitely did.

The long hours she spent working to sustain the two of them meant that he was alone a lot, too. Let's just say, Mike had to adapt pretty quickly, looking after both himself and his grandmother, as more and more responsibilities fell to him as she grew older. Personally, he really doesn't feel as if his short-lived childhood hindered his happiness all that greatly. Yes, she may have been getting frail and weary, but it didn't necessarily put a damper on their time together. Never for one moment has Mike ever resented her for this - quite the opposite - but nevertheless, to this day, his Grammy continues to beat herself up over it.

It wasn't enough. _She_ wasn't enough.

And it broke her heart that Mike had no-one else besides herself to count on.

His Grammy was convinced that he deserved more than what he was receiving, and no matter how hard Mike tried to assure her otherwise, those doubts weighed heavily on her mind.

So it was of no surprise when she beamed brighter than she ever had in years upon seeing that Harvey had accompanied Mike on his visitation three days ago.

Don't get him wrong, Mike was glad that it made Grammy happy. He just wishes she could be overjoyed by something _else._

It's with this in mind that Mike decides against popping in to the nursing home, where she will inevitably try to convince him that this is a wonderful thing. His Gram has never been particularly religious, but he can _hear_ her now, parroting, "It's about time God intervened."

Then, when his cellphone blasts - _kind of like it is now_ \- she'd guilt him into answering with passages from a philosophy book she read a few months back.

It's an all-round, bad idea. Especially with Mike being as furious as he is. He'd be kicking himself afterwards if he ever lashed out at her for saying something even vaguely optimistic that hits a particular nerve - and she _would,_ she so would - with only his best interests at heart.

He aimlessly wanders the cold, gritty city, hours cascading this way, as he wades deeper into unfamiliar territory and catalogues his dour surroundings.

He is shoving his hands into his pockets when he feels the first splotch of rain on his forehead.

It's light at the onset, so Mike ignores it. He huddles into his suit jacket, which offers very little warmth, even going so far as to turn it up at the collar - though he's sure, he must look ridiculous.

Only moments later, the sky crackles and, suddenly, it's teeming down.

Diving for cover, he sprints to the nearest building - a seedy-looking watering hole with a wilting overhead sign reading _Sandino's_ in an insipid, grim glow - and pushes his way blindly inside.

He immediately yanks off his tie and with some difficulty, undoes his top two buttons with numb, maladroit fingers. Next, Mike strips off his now saturated jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Feeling marginally better and shivering only slightly, he inhales deeply and scours his fortuitous refuge.

The lightning's dim, dingy, - not his regular hangout, though similar. He has pretty low standards lately - and the place is practically deserted.

But that's okay.

Mike could use the quiet.

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* * *

_Thank-you all for reading._

_If you haven't already deduced, the following chapter will resume directly from where the prologue left off. That's gotta be mildly exciting, right?_


	4. Face Your Fears

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**CHAPTER THREE:**

Face Your Fears

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* * *

**A/N:** I'm a little scared of posting this chapter, (oh, the irony of the title) because I don't think it's as well explained as it could have been and I really hope it all makes sense. The darn thing really fought me. To the point where I was like, _'Screw it. This is rubbish and I'm never going to get it right!"_ Which... soon lead to, " _I am NEVER writing again!'_ Thankfully, I recovered from this ridiculously histrionical stint, but I feel like I should apologise for it all the same. So, yeah, sorry for the freak out. Please enjoy this next instalment of my whacky tale.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language and the total implausibility of this plot. I urge you to suspend any and all belief._

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* * *

'The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.' - George Bernard Shaw

* * *

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

The sound of his fear pulsates in his ears as Mike walks into the pale, contemporary building - the pummelling of his heart drowning out all other noise so that there is no escape from the crippling dread that flares up inside of him.

His legs are like lead, holding him in place, as he pulls together a flickering smile and says almost warmly, "Good afternoon. Mike Ross from Pearson Hardman? I'm here to see Dr Slater."

Not bothering to glimpse his way, the receptionist listlessly replies, "To the right. Room B. He's been waiting."

Mike doesn't even try to conceal his disbelief at that.

He'd been all set to charm his way in. There's no way he could have been expected.

The woman rolls her eyes at his confounded expression. "The right is _that_ way," she drawls with a blatantly patronizing, disgruntled attitude, even going so far as to point with one long, manicured finger.

"Right," Mike nods jerkily. "Thank-you."

He then hurries off before security can arrive to haul him away.

The indicated room isn't hard to find, but by this point, Mike is so worked up that he thoughtlessly barges right in. With a strident, boorish bang, the door slaps the wall, bringing him and all of his nervous energy to an abrupt standstill.

The air freezes in his lungs.

When the scientist catches sight of him, his face immediately falls into a frown.

"Mr Ross," he greets in this strange, grave tone, and Mike is taken aback by the man actually remembering his name. He hadn't thought he'd made much of an impression before. "I'd been afraid this might happen."

"Sorry?" He pulls a face. "Afraid what might happen? Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?" _Or why the hell you're not surprised to see me?_

"Come with me," Dr Slater instructs, again startling Mike by the subtle bleakness that douses his voice. "It seems we have a lot to discuss."

"We…" Rocking back on his heels, Mike absently scratches his chest. "We do?"

"I'm assuming you're here on personal business?"

"Well, yes-"

"Then trust me, you'll appreciate the discretion." By this stage, the young associate is confused as hell, but when Dr Slater turns down a narrow corridor off to one side, he doesn't hesitate to follow.

He leads Mike to a small, stark laboratory that doesn't appear to have been used in weeks. Sealed boxes line the work space, while the bulk of the equipment has been masked by thin, white sheets.

But it's the air, cold and stale and thick with what could have been, that unnerves Mike the most.

"Here will do," Slater hums, flicking a switch and watching the room brighten. If anything, this only serves to depress the kid further, as it renders the lab all the more grey and dreary. In the dark, at least you can cling to an illusion. But now, bathed in murky light with nowhere to hide, Mike can't ignore the lie he's been living.

"It's been tough for you, I'll bet," the older man suddenly murmurs, startling him out of his thoughts. For the first time, Mike notices just how drawn and pallid the doctor's face really is, and it hits him suddenly - the profound weariness that sinks into this man's every step.

"You're confused," he continues dully, a terribly far-away gaze clouding his expression. "Not to mention, scared. Angry. Completely and utterly alone. Of course, you are. I've seen it before."

"Seen… what before?" Mike asks uncertainly, wary and on edge as he probes for answers he's not sure he wants anymore. "You're being awfully cryptic."

That certainly rouses Dr Slater.

He snaps around to face him and gestures impatiently. "This. You. Your case. This isn't limited exclusively to yourself, I'm afraid. Not by a long shot."

Narrowing his eyes, Mike eyes him briefly, taking in the slovenlier stubble, eroded fingernails and grubby lab coat as though they alone are the key to everything, before biting his lip and prodding, "And what is 'this?'"

Not a game, obviously.

_Christ, Mike, do you seriously think I'd do something like that?_

Nor a nightmare.

_He's living a nightmare…_

Nothing that is rooted in reality and yet this is real.

Slater gives a hard, mocking laugh.

Mouth bitterly coiled, he replies, "My greatest failure."

Had this been any other set of circumstances, Mike would have accused the man of melodrama, but as it stands, he simply nods slowly in the face of such viciously destructive self-loathing. "Yeah..." His forehead crinkles. "You're going to have explain that one."

Exhaling forcefully, Dr Slater's shoulders visibly sag as he kneads his left brow.

"It began with my former colleague, Dr West," he starts and the way his voice cynically envelops the words, immediately commands Mike's attention. "He was what you'd call a bit of a radical scientist and had earned quite a reputation in our field for his unconventional methods and outrageous claims. I was one of the few to take him seriously."

And then there's that outlying look again. As though he's a million miles away.

"West, he…he wasn't like other people. The man was… he was a genius," Dr Slater breathes in unmistakable awe. "The real thing, you know? For years, I'd been a fan of his work, so when I was offered a position on his research team - the chance to work alongside someone of such extraordinary brilliance - it didn't even cross my mind to decline."

He smirks then - contemptuously.

"It was only after signing a confidentiality clause that the real nature of the experiment was disclosed," Dr Slater declares with palpable disdain. "To say I was sceptical would be an immense understatement. But I had faith in Dr West's abilities. I trusted him unreservedly. I had been so confident that West _knew_ what he was doing that I couldn't possibly comprehend the underlying fact that he didn't. It was foolish, I see that now. But you have to understand-"

"Understand _what_?" the tightly wound associate snaps. "What was it about _this_ experiment? What did you _do_?"

"We-we-" he cuts off, overcome with sudden emotion.

Mike tenses.

Squeezing his eyes shut and fiercely compressing his lips in trepidation, Dr Slater swallows hard.

"We ruined over twenty people's lives."

* * *

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Three Days Previously

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* * *

_* flashback *_

* * *

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

Every beat is painful.

One thought reverberates inside, rising any doubt, deepening any fear.

_You don't care._

He really doesn't. Harvey _doesn't_ care and that was always the problem, wasn't it? Every damn relationship was doomed to fail when all that really mattered, ever, was his career. Winning became a fixation, an _addiction_ , and sometimes Harvey wonders if the reason he grasped onto it so tightly was because he needs to win, maybe, to feel whole.

Most days, however, he revels in his bachelorism. Life is easy and free without the demands of a wife or kids and whatnot - that's never really been his thing. Donna is the closest thing he has to family besides his brother and Harvey is happy with that, isn't he?

It had always been enough before.

And yet now… Now…

"Come on, come on. Pick up. Pick _up_ ," he growls into his cell as he fists his hair, tousled from shoving his hands through it one too many times, and restlessly paces the length of his office.

_You don't **care**._

Then what in Christ's name is this?

"Harvey, you need to calm down. This isn't helping."

"He's out there all alone, Donna," Harvey counters with clear panic, leg bouncing. "Mike doesn't even have his crutches with him and God knows his ankle is not quite as peachy as he'd lead us to believe. Goddamn idiot probably hasn't even taken painkillers either because, _needless to say_ , he'll only tolerate them when it's undeniably necessary, but with him, it's _never_ undeniably necessary. So I _know_ he's hurting and here I am, with _no idea_ where the hell he could have gone, and I'm-I can't-"

_I'm useless._

"Harvey-"

He doesn't hear her.

" _Harvey_!" Donna snaps with unexpected harshness, pleased when he flinches and his wild eyes latch onto her collected ones. God knows, she needs to be the rational one here.

She's never seen her boss in such a panic-stricken state and it is a little unsettling to witness the classically level-headed lawyer seemingly come apart at the seams.

"Take a deep breath," she urges. "It's okay. He's fine. Mike just went for a walk to cool off-"

"He shouldn't even _be_ walking!"

She scarcely restrains herself from rolling her eyes. "Well, it won't exactly help matters," she allows, "But for pity's sake, Harvey, it's not going to kill him!"

"Oh, like you're not freaking the shit out!" the lawyer scoffs, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes in frustration. "This is _Mike_ , Donna. Trouble _always_ finds him."

"Of course I'm worried, Harvey! But there's not much we can do about it, is there?"

That was obviously the wrong thing to say as Harvey immediately recommences pacing.

"But what if he's injured, Donna?" he chucks out at her. "What if he's out there and something terrible happens and no-one's there to help? The kid's _angry_. Fuming, in fact. People make stupid decisions when they're angry all the time and this is _Mike_ ," Harvey stresses, begging her with those damn angst-ridden eyes to understand.

Donna doubts the insult even registers.

"You know what else causes people to make horrible decisions?" Donna asks, quirking a brow. She doesn't wait for an answer - instead continuing pointedly, "Panic and hysteria."

"I'm not hysterical!" he cries… kind of hysterically. "As his superior, I have a duty-"

"To what?" Donna smirks. "Get your panties in a twist?"

He glares. "What am I supposed to do?" he questions, and the desperate distress widening his eyes yanks on Donna's heart strings. He just looks so… lost. "Wait around on the off-chance that he shows up? _Nothing?!_ "

Whipping out his cell again, Harvey dials Mike's number for the hundredth time and stands waiting with baited breath. The action pains Donna to see and she wishes she could turn away, grab her things from her desk and go home, but for heaven's sake, she _loves_ these two asshats and it's like she's frozen - watching this God-forsaken train wreck.

No-one is more surprised than Donna when the dork actually picks up.

"Mike?" Harvey breathes in disbelief. "Mike, where the hell are you?" All of a sudden, his expression darkens and the troubled secretary hates that he tries so hard to cloak his concern. "I've been calling you for hours! You are in _so_ much trouble, young man."

There's a pause while Mike responds.

"Tell me where you are," Harvey promptly demands. "I'm coming to pick you up."

_Oh, the poor puppy,_ the ever-so-slightly amused woman sighs. _This is not looking good._

"Mike," Harvey says tightly in that _'you're seriously trying my patience, shut-the-hell-up,'_ voice. "It is in your best interests not to argue with me. Donna has been going out of her mind with worry-" She laughs outright at that "-and to tell the truth, I haven't been particularly impressed by your disappearing act, either."

"Understatement of the century," Donna mutters, earning an annoyed glower and a nudge in the side.

His jaw then clenches and he grits, "Tell. Me. Where. You. Are."

If she's honest with herself, Donna is a little impressed by the take-no-shit attitude, but on the other hand.. she can't help but feel concerned. This is not an exchange between employer and employee. This is like the show-down before some defiant brat gets grounded for two weeks, but it's alright because they totally deserved it.

It's then that Harvey dangerously murmurs, "You..went..to a bar?" And that's what really drives it home for Donna.

This isn't _right._

"I'll be there in five." And for a second after he ends the call, there's a genuine possibility that that cell is going to get hurled across the office.

Pacing all over again, Harvey vents, "I can't believe it. I can't believe he'd go to a bar. How could he be so irresponsible? Mike knows he's not allowed-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Donna intercepts. "Wait a minute. He's not _allowed?_ Why?"

Suddenly, the steadfast lawyer looks unsure. Angry, but unsure.

"Because-because he has work tomorrow-"

"That's never bothered you before," she points out.

"A lot of things never bothered me before!" Harvey snaps. And there it is. The _real_ issue here.

"Harvey," his friend murmurs in an overly gentle voice. Suddenly, she has to be careful in a way that's never been necessary before. "You're forgetting… Mike is a grown man. He can take care of himself."

Oh, boy. That sure gets a rise out of him.

" _Grown man_?" Harvey repeats incredulously, giving a frenzied huff of a laugh. "This is Mike. Mike, who is scared of the dark and chews his fingers when he's anxious or bored or unsure of himself and sucks his thumb when he's tired. This is the same _man_ who still believes - and don't even try to deny it - that 'special' cuts are capable of turning his hands _green."_

"Harvey.." She winces. When did everything become so bloody complicated? "I'm not going to pretend that I have any idea what any of this means, but Mike was right when he said that this… it's fucked up as hell."

"Don't you think I _know_ that?"

" _Do_ you, though?" Donna retorts mercilessly. "Because I'm seriously starting to wonder."

The sudden hurt in his stunned face almost makes her want to take the words back. But how can it be betrayal when it's the truth?

"I'm sorry, Harvey," she goes on, voice grim. "But what you're doing? It's only going to push him away in the long run-"

"Donna-"

She doesn't give him a chance to defend himself, knowing this needs to be said. "And I'm worried, Harvey," she softly confides. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't look like you know _what_ you're doing."

"I'm-I'm-" He collapses onto his chair. "He's my…my-"

Harvey can't seem to gather his thoughts, vocalise this… these damn feelings…

Her voice is oh-so-delicate to ask, "Your what, Harvey?"

"Mike is like my-my-" he suddenly breaks off. Abruptly standing, he declares with uncharacteristic roughness, "I've got to go."

But from the staggered look his face, Donna thinks she already knows the answer.

* * *

_* End of flashback *_

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* * *

Shock settles like dust over Mike's bones and he openly baulks.

"They shut us down and they were right to," the gaunt man whispers distraughtly, words quickening. "Dr West was promptly fired, what remained of his credibility was instantly demolished, and I was left hanging onto my own post by a thread. Hence, the legal problems Mr Specter has failed to dredge up any details of," he adds as a second thought.

"So the experiment was ultimately pulled," Mike succinctly surmises. "Why?"

"The research was ethically questionable at best," Slater elucidates, fine tremors coursing through his hands. "Nine times out of ten, it's impossible to conduct any sort of psychosomatic study without some form of moral conflict arising. But this…" He shakes his head, pained. "What we did…It was deplorable."

"Deplorable how?"

Mike's curiosity has undoubtedly peaked.

As has his fear.

Grimacing, the doctor's eyes bounce around the room - anywhere but near Mike - as he confides, "We were dealing with detrimental issues spanning over months of deception and manipulation. The psychological damage alone was unspeakable. In order to avoid jeopardizing the validity of the results, West refused to inform the participants of the true purpose of the study. We didn't want to plant any ideas in their head of how they _should_ be feeling or the effects this _should_ have on them physically, so… the only alternative was to say nothing at all."

Mike feels a momentary stab of pity for those poor individuals, but hastily pushes the thought aside. He doesn't want to-he just can't-

"The consent, therefore, was naturally dubious," Dr Slater is explaining. "These people had no clue what they were getting themselves into. Several of them _explicitly_ stated that they were only there to earn an easy buck."

He breaks off, running a hand through his receding hair.

"I should have reported West," he fervently reproaches. "It was so wrong - so very, very wrong - but he was my idol and I couldn't bear the thought that he would take a risk of this magnitude without _caring._ You know what he'd tell me?" Dr Slater throws the question out rhetorically. "He'd tell me, _'Slater, think about what we could achieve if we're successful. Just_ imagine _. We could change the face of science forever, don't you_ see _? In cases like these, the odds always justify the means.'_ And I…" He gives an acrimonious chuckle. "I believed him. I couldn't _stand_ to let him down."

Still in the dark and growing more and more frustrated by the minute, Mike gripes, "I don't understand. What were you hoping to accomplish? What was so awful about your research that it cost Dr West his job?"

Dr Slater glances over at him sharply.

The silence between them is long and jaded, heavy with regret.

"We thought we'd discovered a cure for aging, Mr Ross," he solemnly intones, unflinching. "But it was so much more than that."

* * *

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

_* flashback *_

* * *

Mike wishes that Harvey were still an ass.

It seems to him that if only his boss would stop all of this caring nonsense, everything could go back to normal.

He wouldn't be sitting here in this dull, drab shithole feeling sorry for himself, because Harvey's coming to ream him out and he doesn't look fucking old enough to nurse a damn beer. And that's not even the worst part.

The worst part is he feels _guilty_. He feels bad for worrying Harvey and that only cements the fact that he's living in goddamn cuckoo land.

"Cheer up, sweetie," the bartender clucks, "Your Dad'll be here any second."

"That's not exactly reassuring," Mike mutters, not even bothering to correct her, because what can he say? What can he say about _any_ of this that'll make one lick of sense to anyone, ever? Nothing, that's what. Absolutely nothing.

"He can't be that bad a guy, I reckon," she murmurs, almost wistful. "No deadbeat dad's gonna care if you're out to all hours. Least this one gives a damn."

Mike shrugs. "Guess so."

And that's all the information he volunteers on the matter.

But when the time comes to face the music, it's strangely anti-climatic.

Harvey sweeps in, murmurs a quick thanks to the bartender who is so obviously keeping an eye on his rebellious 'son', and that's... it.

Taking Mike by the elbow, he says neutrally, "Let's go," before guiding him to the waiting cab by the kerb.

Mike knows it's crazy, but there's a piece of him that's kind of, well, disappointed, in a respect. Especially when he climbs in and for the first time in weeks, Harvey doesn't tell him to buckle his seatbelt.

The longer the silence stretches between them, the more apparent it becomes that Harvey's got something else on his mind.

Surprising himself, Mike finds he doesn't exactly like that.

Soft and uncertain, the boy eventually pipes, "Aren't you gonna, um, say anything?"

Harvey stares straight ahead.

"Given that you don't appear intoxicated, I'm inclined to be more lenient," the older man casually remarks. "You get whatever pro-bonos I've been neglecting, Louis' scanty paperwork and no breaks." He shifts and straightens his tie then; Mike hadn't even noticed it was loose. "You know the drill."

Mike stumbles, "I-I do?"

"Sure, you do." Harvey rolls his eyes. "It's not like you haven't screwed up enough in the past. You tell me: how does this usually go?"

Is he... is he for real?

"I get a lecture," Mike recalls, frowning, "Along with The Face Of Disapproval, and then you banish me to my desk for the next few days to either rectify my mistake or because I'm drowning in so much work, I may as well be chained to it anyway."

"Exactly," Harvey grins, but there's something… off about his expression, though Mike can't detect what. "Except that this time, you already know what I'm thinking, so a lecture isn't necessary-"

"It never is," Mike says sullenly.

Glaring, he continues, "And that Face Of Disapproval? Try 'Face of You Goddamn Idiot.'"

"Not sure _that_ was necessary," Mike mutters, but inside he is feeling bewildered beyond repair. So far, there have been no hair ruffles or ' _kiddos_ ' or ' _buddy_ 's.' His boss hasn't said a single thing about putting himself in danger or wandering off to a dodgy neighbourhood. _Not once_ , has Harvey professed any kind of concern whatsoever.

It's almost like… like normal. Like the _old_ Harvey. Only this doesn't feel normal at all.

"When it comes to you," Harvey smirks. "There is literally no such thing as an unnecessary insult."

Mike's relieved - of course, he is. Why wouldn't he be?

It's just... His heart just aches a little.

It's at that exact moment that he notices the cab is pulling up beside his own apartment block and his stomach drops.

"I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow morning, kidd-" Harvey cuts off, frowning. Recovering quickly, he inserts, "I don't care if it's a Saturday; we have an early meeting with a client over at Ferguson's. Don't be late."

Dazed, Mike stumbles out of the cab and is almost to the entrance when he hears a voice ring out, "I mean it, Mike! I won't accept any excuses!"

And as he turns his key in the lock and his door swings open to reveal his cold, barren home, Mike is still stuck wondering why in the world it hurts so damn much.

* * *

_* End of flashback *_

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* * *

Mike has heard more than enough.

"Oh, sure. A cure for aging. Right. Of course," he sarcastically bites, forcing a nasty sneer, "Like that's feasible. You know, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but since you are clearly out of your goddamn mind and _still_ haven't explained what _any_ of this has got to do with me-"

"Those chemicals never should have been mixed, Mr Ross," Slater interpolates squarely. "Those beakers were comprised of the key components for a de-aging formula." He halts briefly, trying to gauge the kid's reaction, before concluding, "And you accidentally inhaled it."

Mike laughs. But the sound is strained and false even to his own ears. "You're crazy-"

"Am I?" he swiftly returns, raising a brow. "At the time, I couldn't be sure that it was those exact chemicals that had been combined. It seemed a much too unfortunate calamity and I had sincerely prayed otherwise. Until my fears could be confirmed or you initiated contact, I was unable to divulge any details of our previous catastrophe. My confidentiality agreement proved to be a regrettable impediment."

"Are you fucking with me?" Mike blurts. "Like, seriously? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Dr Slater bristles.

"I assure you, Mr Ross, it was no _joke_ when all of our participants regressed back to their adolescent selves."

* * *

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* * *

_* flashback *_

* * *

The following day, things don't get much better.

Mike is tired and grumpy throughout the meeting, having not slept all night because - get this - his apartment felt too strange, his bed lacked his furry friend, and there was no _Harvey_ to ruffle his hair and wish him goodnight, soaked by the glow of his nightlight.

It's left him feeling oddly out of sorts.

Harvey, himself, has been distant all day, to say the least. Mike just wants him to say something - anything - and is rapidly becoming annoyed with being ignored.

Slowly, - as his mentor neglects to chide him for obviously skipping lunch and later fails to confiscate the redbull which is frankly the only thing keeping the associate going - that annoyance turns to something much more unfavourable. Something sore and itchy that Mike absolutely refuses to acknowledge is anxiety.

He can't understand why he's being so needy. It's like, all of a sudden, Harvey's opinion of him is of vital importance and Mike's saddened by the fact that his boss is seemingly disappointed in him. Not only that, but he... he-

Oh, God, he's really going to admit it, isn't he?

Mike _misses_ Harvey. And in essence, he is simply upset he's not around.

There. He said it.

He misses his boss and he has no freakin' notion why.

It doesn't help that as the day wears on, Mike becomes more and more exhausted, unaccustomed to missing his usual nap. The lines on his page begin to blur, only about half of the files completed, and his eyelids are constantly drooping, forcing the kid to tug on them just to keep himself alert. Mike's even beginning to wonder if he's broken some sort of record or something, after his unbroken chain of yawning that lasted a solid fifteen minutes.

His resolve is wavering and Mike doesn't know what to do.

* * *

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

* * *

Harvey loves coming to the firm on Saturdays.

He's a self-professed workaholic and it's the one day of the week where he can get the most done without the hustle and bustle of every damn employee in the building.

But for the first time that he can remember, Harvey spends the majority of the day just staring out the window, a brooding hollowness shrouding his body.

He can't concentrate. He can't think. He can hardly bear to sit here knowing Mike's down the hall in his damp, wrinkled suit from the day before, with purple bags under his eyes and a huge bundle of files he'll have to stay overnight to finish.

Truth be told, Harvey wants nothing more than to send the obviously sleep-deprived boy home, after giving him a thorough telling off for cycling in the rain after he'd _specifically_ prohibited him from doing so. For God's sake, does Mike think he's _blind_ or something? He can _see_ the abandoned bike from his office. The very same abandoned bike he'd dropped off at Mike's place three damn nights ago.

Yet he does none of that.

Harvey is trying so hard to respect Mike's wishes and leave him alone to look after himself like the-the _adult_ he is, but he never could have anticipated just how excruciatingly difficult it would be to keep his distance.

Turns out, the decision is taken out of his hands when the door creaks open and a thin, blonde figure slinks into his office, immediately curling up on his couch.

He doesn't even pause to consider it.

Right away, Harvey makes his way over, settling down beside by the pitiful lump. Big, watery blue eyes peek up at him as he retrieves the pup's blanket and drapes it over the pale, sleepy form.

Heart aching, Harvey watches Mike nibble on his curled thumb, obviously upset, and instinctively reaches out to silently smooth his hair. The soothing action relaxes both Mike and Harvey, who each feel at ease for the first time that day.

With his spare hand, the older man snatches the associate's stuffed toy from where it had fallen the day before and smiles as Mike's arm instantly weaves around it, while he nuzzles his nose into the velvety fur.

Neither utter a single thing. Everything and nothing has already been said.

Soft jazz playing in the background, Harvey begins to hum under his breath as Mike's breaths even into sleep.

* * *

_* End of flashback *_

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

_Adolescent selves?_

Throat closing over, Mike just about chokes, "Wh-what?" as an icy horror robs him of feeling.

"It was slow, I suppose. The process," he adds at the kid's puzzled expression. "And we've never discovered a cure. That's why I still have the formula, you know. In my free time, I've been working on a reversal. But I'll admit, it's looking highly unlikely that I'll ever be able to undo the damage I've caused."

All of a sudden, Mike is angrier than he's ever been before, head throbbing as he clenches his fists and spits, "You know what? I'm not just going to stand here and listen to you feed me this bullshit-"

"For the last time, young man," Dr Slater explodes in exasperation, "I'm being one-hundred percent serious! I will _never_ forgive myself for inflicting such a fate upon the others." Breathing heavily, he pauses. "And now that same fate is yours."

" _What fate_?!" Mike cries, throwing his hands into the air. "Stop being so goddamn cagey and come out with it already!"

"They weren't just _acting_ like college or high school students," Dr Slater informs him with genuine earnestness. "They were emotional, irrational, physically _younger_ than before. Performance at work suffered, sleep patterns were disrupted - you name it. On the outside, they looked like normal, healthy young adults. Yet they were anything but."

"What _were_ they then?" he challenges. "If not teenagers like all outward appearances would suggest?"

Slater heaves a dejected sigh.

"There was one man," he says after a moment. "Late forties. Married with a steady income and two sons. I don't know _why_ he volunteered; some people are more inclined to help than others. It's a personality thing, you see. Really screws with your supposedly random sample of the population-"

"The _point?"_ Man, this guy's thought process is scattered.

"The point is that he was _happy_. Before. His life was simple, I guess, but he liked it that way," the older man passionately tells him. "By the time we were finished _toying_ with his life, his wife was his mother and he was the youngest in the family at thirteen, with two brothers." When Mike literally reels back in surprise, Dr Slater gives a satisfied nod, scornfully adding, "Now, does that sound _simple_ to you?"

No, it sounds… unbelievably dysfunctional. Not least, entirely implausible.

"Let's say for one moment that I believe you," Mike says, humouring either himself or the deranged scientist - he's not sure. "Explain to me: how would any of that be possible?"

"This is _science_ we're talking about, Mr Ross," he replies in exasperation. "Your very cells are changing and the toll that this takes on your body is quite substantial, as you can imagine."

_What if he doesn't_ want _to imagine?_

"A few of our participants found that although they appeared no younger than a teenager, they experienced drastic moods swings and seemed to have the emotional maturity equivalent to that of a toddler-"

_No, please. Stop - it's not true - it's not true -_

"-When upset or ill, this phenomenon became much more prominent and so far, it has yet to fade completely. Not only that, but they were prone to bouts of extreme tiredness, having to take a break to recharge during the day, and formed attachments to teddy bears, dolls, blankets, and other childish items-"

_No, no, no - shut up, shut up, **shut**_ **up** **-**

"They were also enthralled by basic kid's TV shows and in extreme cases, even re-established old habits such as thumb sucking or bedwetting."

"That's… that's…" Bizarre. Horrifying. Unbelievable.

_Just like me._

"What was most interesting, however, were the strange changes that participants noted in their personal relationships. You see, what was absolutely ground-breaking wasn't just the fact that we'd stumbled upon a means of literally erasing decades, but the effect that this has on those _around_ you."

Mike's frown deepens. "What do you mean? What effect?"

"It was like watching Mother Nature in action," Slater answers and that really doesn't shed any light on anything.

"Meaning?" he condescendingly prompts.

The doctor rolls his eyes. "Okay, let me put it this way. If a species is to survive, then a mother must never leave her young unprotected, right?"

"Right…" he replies doubtfully. He still doesn't see what that has to do with anything.

"It would be precarious and well, stupid to leave a young child to fend for itself. Unlike many mammals, human infants are basically defenceless. A human mother would have to carry her child for up to twenty-one months in order for it to have the same neurological and cognitive development of a newborn chimpanzee." _So_ not point, Mike inwardly groans. "Commonly, we attribute this to either a mother's metabolism or natural selection, which favoured childbirth at an earlier stage of development to accommodate for both a larger brain size and an upright locomotion. Nevertheless, this means that human children are forced to rely heavily on a caregiver that can cater to their wide range of needs for many years."

"Yes, alright. I get it. Very cool. But what about the _study_?"

A faint smile hovering above his lips, Dr Slater murmurs, "It was… _fascinating_ to behold. The participants were absolutely baffled by the drastic alterations in the behaviour of their loved ones-"

Mike's heart skips a beat.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, he attempts to ask casually, "Change in behaviour, you say?" - all the while, failing miserably.

"Mother Nature, remember?" The douche-bag actually smirks. "As a means of security, everyone who cared for the participant felt inscrutably more protective, especially during periods where the young person themselves felt particularly vulnerable. We never could figure out the cause, but it was easy to see that the bonds of whomever they were closest to - be it a friend, partner, parent or sibling - only strengthened, while any nurturing instincts that they harboured went haywire."

"Okay…" That's… normal.

"You've yet to fully grasp the significance, haven't you?" Slater questions sadly, mouth down-turned once more. "Mr Ross," he relates with subtle delicacy, "These… _feelings_ \- protective compulsions, even - would subsequently lead certain individuals to assume the role of the caregiver when the regression reached its… inevitable conclusion."

For a moment, Mike can't breathe.

_Oh, no,_ He gasps. _Oh, God, no_. Shit. Fuck. Crap.

His mind is a stream of swear words. A barrier to stop this - any of this - from penetrating his consciousness.

_This can't be happening. This can't be happening…_

But he can't ignore that it makes sense.

The protectiveness… the worry… the consideration…

Worst of all, his _reactions_.

"Son of a bitch!" he suddenly exclaims, causing Dr Slater to jump back in surprise. "That goddamn asshole has been trying to-" Words failing him, he puffs up his chest in repressed aggravation. "Trying to, to _father_ me!" he bursts. " _Damn idiot_!"

The elder man appears to be at odds between concern and amusement. "Excuse me?"

"Harvey," Mike explains shortly. Dr Slater's face remains blank. "Harvey Specter?"

There's a sick kind of satisfaction in watching the other man's eyes bug out of their sockets.

"No wonder he's being so freakin' caring and affectionate all of sudden!" the kid carries on raging. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? _My_ **_boss_** is going all paternal on my ass!"

"Mr Ross…" Slater hesitantly interrupts while scratching his bald spot. "If what you are saying is true, then your boss can't help what he is doing any more than you can. His…" He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, before restarting, "His own parental instincts would be tremendously difficult to ignore and it is natural, I expect, for Mr Specter to feel you are his responsibility."

"I don't care! This is unacceptable-"

"I must stress, these feelings did not simply materialize inexplicably," Slater remarks seriously, meeting his frenzied gaze in a manner he thinks is intended to reassure. "They would have existed beforehand, but have been merely amplified by the belief that you are, in a sense… helpless and in need of care."

"Oh, great. That's fantastic. So, what you're saying is, I'm supposed to be dependant on a emotionally stunted jerk who, up until very recently, could not express any sort of sentiment beyond, 'Button your damn suit. You're embarrassing the hell out of me?'"

The entire concept is absurd.

In a way, yes, it is a relief to know that he's not in fact losing his mind - that everything that has transpired in the past two and a half weeks may have been outlandish and utterly illogical, but there is a reason his suits no longer complement his lean body or snugly fit around his shoulders.

He is, however, essentially terrified of the truth now that it has emerged.

Mike is a _teenager_ , for God's sake. Or, almost. Maybe. He's not sure - which, by the way, what even _is_ that? How on earth can he not tell?

Yet underneath all of the denial and fear and goddamn _grief_ , thoughts scattered and fragmented, there is a tiny, little part of Mike that is pleased.

Ten years may have been just shaved off his age and his heart seems to be running towards something vast and irrevocable, propelled by joy or panic or both.

Yet his foremost thought begins and ends with-

_I can't believe it. Harvey really does care about me._

* * *

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

__You didn't seriously think I'd be NORMAL and write in chronological order, did you? I__ was _ _planning to, but then... This was so much more interesting.__

_Anyway, thank-you for reading._ _Please do let me know what you think. I really do appreciate all of your feedback._


	5. All Your Fault

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**CHAPTER FOUR:**

All Your Fault

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* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the lateness of this one. School has been so hectic and I had to work pretty hard to get this done along with everything else that's been going on. I hope it's alright. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

On another note, I've been thinking: what age would you like Mike to be? I've said that he's a teenager, but haven't specified how young exactly, because I keep changing my mind. So… I'm leaving it up to you guys. If you have anything in particular in mind, (maybe a specific age you've always pictured?) then by all means, please do let me know. It's pretty flexible.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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* * *

More than anything else, what astounds Harvey the most is the anger.

By nature, he's quite a composed, reserved man; it's part of what makes him the best.

In this line of work, it's vital that you stay cool under pressure, and Harvey usually doesn't concern himself with tedious dramas unless he can potentially use them to his advantage later.

Nothing about this could possibly benefit the senior partner. Nor does it play to his strengths.

…Unless, of course, you're talking about his proficiency in boxing. But he'd do well to ignore those quick, injurious impulses at this present moment.

It's like every single instinct is goading him to _do_ something - to strike hard and not let up until his fists are sparked with the blood of at least one broken nose, letting that treacherous innermost part of him - an unsolicited outrage he so readily condemns, because the presence of such feelings _means_ something now and he can't deny it - rear its ugly head with the loathsome dearth of mercy.

The intensity of the desire is almost absurd, considering the complete and utter inapprop - No, that's not right. More like, the guaranteed, disastrous consequences. It would be appropriate, alright. Crazy, maybe, but also a perverted execution of justice.

The rage consumes him in an instant, and Harvey's never had a problem with anger management, but there's very little he can do to stop it when a voice scoffingly chokes out, as if teasing the other man for the dawdling which prevented bare hands from securing his unprotected throat:

"We were just _messing around_."

Harvey draws back and punches him square in the face.

* * *

x-X-x 24 Hours Previously x-X-x

* * *

Mike splashes some cold water onto his face and once again, pinches his cheeks.

Irritating the associate to no end, however, the paleness of his complexion is restored within minutes. No matter how many times he dabs scrunched up toilet paper at his forehead or twists and stretches his skin, Mike's appearance remains - at first glance - entirely unremarkable, until closer inspection reveals the fraught, pasty exterior which perfectly showcases all of the inner turmoil he so desperately wants to keep under wraps.

One look at him and Harvey will know something is up (no doubt putting those newly acquired 'gut feelings' to use, he can't help but bitterly think) and then he'll bug Mike until he spills.

_Well,_ he smirks, puffing up his chest, just call him Clark Kent 'cause he won't be spilling anything today!

At least… not again.

Harvey's interrogation skills are exemplary and not many can circumvent him, but Mike has to try.

He won't own up to hiding, but that flower-scented air-freshener the janitor sprayed while giving him the evil eye has done a extraordinarily poor job of masking his earlier bile and still, he's stuck around. If only to avoid offence, Mike wishes he could blame his little vomit-spree on some defective chicken wings from the night before, but in actual fact, he just freaked - pure and simple.

After running into Harvey in the corridor this morning and having him merely tut at his untucked shirt, maybe part of him had gotten his hopes up. Maybe part of him had thought that he could live a normal life and that Harvey could live his, working alongside each other in perfectly normal harmony, bickering back and forth, and it would be alright.

Maybe part of Mike had been in denial and then that all changed.

Because, yes, Harvey had tutted and carried on without breaking stride, but he should never have been so quick to celebrate the return of Harvey The Condescending Prick. Because the truth is… he never really left.

Harvey will still crack inappropriate jokes about Louis' non-existent wife, and he'll still be copiously ruthless in his terrorization of everyone he bumps into the day after the Yankees lose a game. He'll wear three-piece suits with shameless arrogance, his poised manner commanding respect from everyone he encounters, and listen to his cherished vinyl records with the smallest of smirks after breezing through yet another case.

But he'll do it all while listening with rapt attention as Mike babbles about the most mundane poppycock, a half-smile melting his previously frozen features, and ruffling his bogus 'son's' hair without thinking.

And Mike doesn't know how he feels about that.

He'd tried not to feel anything at all.

Imagine then, the shock, when he was on his way to deliver some files and overheard Donna lamenting, "Harvey, come on, you can't let that get to you. It was just a dream. Let it go."

And then, before he can make his presence known, his boss sweeping a hand through his hair and replying, "I know, I know. It's crazy. It wasn't real and yet, I can't shake this _feeling_..." He'd pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know. He's _not_ my son, I know that-"

"But.." Donna hesitated. "You sort of feel like his dad."

Perhaps it was the finality of the words, maybe there was a grave depth to them that seemed so out-of-place when speaking of an unrealistic dream which should have been inconsequential and swiftly forgotten, - a dream he can only guess at its contents - but that one line hit him harder than anything else since leaving Dr. Slater's unforgiving lab that afterwards, felt so far from reality.

In the end, Harvey might be the same old competitive, ego-centric guy with serious commitment issues, but here's the thing - he'd obviously never settled down for a _reason_ and this was never meant to be.

Harvey is being forced into fatherhood because of some failed experiment that turned Mike into some juvenile freak.

Nausea bubbling up his throat, Mike had bolted towards the bathrooms.

He hasn't surfaced since.

If he's honest, he's surprised his boss has yet to assemble a search party, (or who knows, maybe he has; Mike _has_ been ducking into the stalls every time someone enters, so he wouldn't be flushed out of his not-hideaway) but with every passing hour, he's becoming increasingly more aware of his advancing naptime and with all of these insecurities rattling about inside of him, Mike's yearning for comfort has sky-rocketed and there's only so much he can do.

The associate's resolve to relieve Harvey of these 'responsibilities' Dr. Slater mentioned is proving extremely difficult and Mike _knows_ that the more worked up he becomes, the more child-like he will act, but emotions are such fickle things and he never claimed to be perfect.

It's as though he can _feel_ his older self struggling with the reigns as any semblance of restraint crumbles.

Funny how his fear of losing control is the very thing that causes his downfall.

Mouth watering in anticipation, Mike' stomach sinks. Curbing the cravings are going to be much harder than he thought.

"I can fight this," he growls between clenched teeth, gripping the sink and staring hard at his reflection. "I won't. I'm not going to give in." Tears spring forth in his eyes and his fist slowly sidles upwards, unravelling…

Everything's falling apart.

"I won't," he vows, "I can do this." Hand shuddering, Mike turns his head away from the temptation.

Ha.

He has the bizarre urge to cackle. Like _that's_ going to help. His thumb is already arched and waiting. It's only a matter of time…

Mike runs his tongue along his lips and bites down hard enough to draw blood.

No. He _won't_.

But he really, really wants to.

Mike wants to prove himself and be a great lawyer. He wants to pay for his grandmother's care and still have some money left over to shell out for his rent each month and buy decent groceries with a low sugar content.

But there's also the part that longs to sleep in 'til noon because he simply couldn't be bothered, sprawling out on the sofa to watch re-runs of Doctor Who and reading books he's read a hundred times before. It's a nice fantasy, with little else to worry about beyond asking out girls with ill-timed zits and accepting that standing at the edge of the crowd is the only place he'll ever fit in. Mike has even found himself hoping to go to college, and the lines are so blurred that he can't tell anymore if it's because he'd like to redo his botched degree for securities' sake or because he'd like to go for real.

And then there's the here and now - the Mike who wants nothing more than to hug Harvey, who he knows is upset for some reason about something and pop his thumb into his mouth.

It feels as though he's being torn in so many directions, he can't tell left from right.

Unable to face Harvey; _needing_ to be near Harvey - the contradictions are endless.

Trying to protect Harvey, but failing, because how can he protect him from himself?

Especially when the door opens and before he can move a muscle, Mike hears:

"Oh, thank God," Donna cries upon seeing him. "You really know how to scare the living daylight's out everyone, don't you? Your da- I mean," She blows a breath, shaking her head before continuing, " _Harvey's_ worried silly." Giving him a cursory once-over, she doesn't seem to like what she finds. "Were you bored, sweetie? Is that it? Did someone decide to play a little game of hide-and-seek without telling anyone?"

More than a little uncomfortable, Mike shakes his head and stares down at his shoes, before feeling the need to shyly point out, "Donna, this is the men's room."

"It is?" Donna asks, feigning a frown. "Oh. Well, in that case, we'd better get a move on before someone sees us. You wouldn't want to get me in any trouble, would you?"

Amused by her dramatic tone despite himself, Mike gives a timid smile.

"Come on, then." She grins. "Let's put poor Harvey out of his misery."

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* * *

As expected, the older man wastes no time shepherding him into the back of the limo. Part of Mike suspects that Harvey planned to take him home regardless of the reason for his disappearance - why else would Ray be conveniently at hand? It's not like there were any meetings or court cases scheduled - even if he'd merely been down at the hotdog stand (where Harvey had, in fact, checked, along with a whole list of ridiculous locations. Like, seriously? That microscopic excuse for a storage closet on the third floor? For the last time, he wasn't playing hide-and-seek!).

The disappointment he will not admit to feeling when they arrive at his block, fades promptly when Harvey himself steps out and asks Ray to wait.

Heart nervously fluttering, Mike narrows his eyes and questions in suspicion, "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you pack suitably." He flicks a bored glance at the kid and rolls his eyes. "Don't look at me like that," Harvey adds, mistaking Mike's disbelief for insult. "Despite your eidetic memory, you're a pretty disorganized person. I'm just covering all of my bases."

When they reach his apartment, Mike struggles to dig up his key, and Harvey gives him a pointed look, as if to say, ' _See_?'

After having his patience tested far beyond its limits with Harvey nagging about everything from the cups and plates piling up in his sink (a whole _five_ in total) to the unmade bed and the mismatched socks cropping up everywhere, Mike inwardly cheers when his boss finally - _finally_ \- stops nitpicking about his personal cleanliness (which is clearly not up to scratch going by his upturned nose and the overall unimpressed vibes he's been emanating) and turns to leave, grumbling under his breath.

Mike gets it, he really does. He's not being intentionally overbearing. But it doesn't stop him from feeling a little insecure all the same. He doesn't want Harvey to evaluate his competency as an independent young man and find it lacking; Mike wants to be glowingly self-sufficient to the point where Harvey has _no_ room to criticize and _no_ reason to worry about anything, ever, regarding Mike.

When he puts it that way, it's a lot to ask. Hell, it's virtually impossible. And Mike wonders for a brief moment if he's setting himself up for failure and if it still counts as being responsible. He can't eliminate every risk of error, but he can damn well try.

"Hey, kiddo," Harvey catches his arm just before he hops in, "You okay? Stomach bothering you?"

Mike wriggles out of his grip.

"I told you, I'm not sick," he mumbles.

"And I told you, I'm not buying it. You got something on your mind, then just come out with it instead of bottling everything up all the time. I'm here to help."

"There's nothing _to_ say." Mike gnashes his teeth together and glares. "And even if there _were_ , I wouldn't tell you anyway."

Harvey's brows rise so far, they disappear into his hairline.

"See?" he crows. "You've been acting tetchy all day."

"Have not," he pouts.

"I disagree. Either you were sick because of some virus of some sort or it's stress-related. In which case, I'd like to know what's so bad that you feel you can't come to me about it. Is it Louis?" he suddenly questions, eyes burning. "Is he blackmailing you again? Whatever it is, I won't get mad, I promise."

Wouldn't get mad, his arse. Like Mike can't _see_ the tightening of his jaw. Bloody hypocrite.

"It's not _anything_ ," Mike insists, heart hammering and hardening simultaneously. "Just leave me alone. _God_ , can't a guy have _one_ bad day?" Then he jumps in before Harvey can say anything and slams the door.

Ray blinks but refrains from commenting.

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After spending the entire journey glowering at a loose thread in his suit jacket and winding it around his thumb, Mike storms into Harvey's condo and immediately plops down onto the couch where he curls up and burrows under a discarded throw.

He hears Harvey enter soon after and presumably sigh when he spots him.

Well, whatever. Who cares if he's sulking, anyway? He is perfectly entitled to his feelings!

To his dismay, not only does Harvey refuse to take the hint and leave him to his moping, he actually sits down on the other end of the couch and unfolds his laptop without a care in world, matching Mike's furious look with a defiant one of his own.

An hour of stewing in silence later and Mike is starting to regret his bratty actions as his limbs soak in the exhaustion which pervades his mind. Nuzzling the edge of the armchair with his nose, he snuffles quietly before murmuring forlornly, "Sorry, H'vey."

"I know, buddy. It's okay."

"S'not," he shakes his head. "Was bad."

Harvey moves closer to gently card his fingers through the boy's hair. "It's alright. Time to sleep."

Shaking his head once more, Mike snivels, "Don't want to."

"Don't want to?" Harvey echoes in confusion. "Why not?"

"Just-just don't want to," Mike simply blubbers, looking up at him with red, tear-stained cheeks.

Seeing that he's not getting anywhere, the older man sighs and glances around the room. Spying Mike's bag over by the door, he starts to stand before a hand reaches out and clings to his pants leg.

"M'sorry!" Mike wails. "Don't go!"

Harvey heart gives a painful lurch.

"I'll be right back, bud," he softly appeases. "Just two seconds, 'kay? Two little seconds."

Mike only continues to scowl, which Harvey realises he can't do anything about until he physically _leaves_ and then _returns_. After slowly prying the fingers off to the kid's displeasure, he quickly retrieves the desired object before crouching down beside Mike.

"Here you go, kiddo," Harvey says lowly. "This what you wanted?"

From a distance, it probably looks like nothing more than a ball of fluff, but to _Mike_ , he instantly recognises-

"Jellybean!" he shrieks, smiling sleepily. Latching onto the fuzzy wolf, the boy rubs his cheek against the gray fur and settles the stuffed animal under his chin.

Harvey frowns. "Jellybean?"

Mike nods. "Uh-huh. I called him Jellybean because jellybeans are his absolute favouritest in the whole wide world, especially the purple ones that taste like cola, and he likes to gobble them up instead'f people."

As much as part of Harvey wants to beam at the overwhelming adorableness, the other half is much too horrified by the implications of that statement.

Eat people? He is _never_ letting Mike watch another scary movie again.

As for werewolves, (cartoon or otherwise) and Little Red Riding Hood? You can flipping _forget it._

But all he says is, "That's... nice."

"He also loves mud and spiders and Star Wars and dirt bikes, but I didn't think those names would suit him all that much."

"No," this time Harvey does grin, "No, somehow I don't think they would."

Yawning, Mike knuckles his eyes and adds, "And he likes you too, H'vey. He says you're the best."

The other man thinks that if his smile gets any brighter, his teeth might sparkle like in the commercials. "Does he now? Well, thank-you very much, Mr Jellybean," he replies warmly. "You seem pretty awesome yourself."

Mike giggles, eyes sparkling in delight.

"Now, come on," Harvey lightly scolds, tapping him on the nose. "No more distractions. It's time to sleep."

"But Jellybean's not tired," the kid announces.

"He looks pretty tired to me."

"He's not," Mike shakes his head quickly, "He _bursting_ with energy! He wants to go…to go, um.. _dancing_!"

Harvey can't help but burst out laughing.

"Is that so?" he chuckles. "Well, I'd be happy to take Jellybean dancing _after_ he's had a nap." Smirking, he teases, "I assume we're taking about ballet, no?"

Pulling a disgusted face, Mike retorts brusquely, " _No_."

"Hmm, tap dance?" He shakes his head. "Folk dance?" Another no. "How about Irish dance? Latin dance? _Interpretative_ dance? Which is it?"

"Harvey," Mike levels him with the driest of looks. "Jellybean only does the _wolf_ dance."

"In that case," Harvey softly responds as he smoothes a thumb over the pup's hair, pleased to see his eyes growing heavy despite Mike's best efforts, "I wish him all the best of luck."

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* * *

When Mike wakes, he feels even more disjointed, caught between his differing selves.

Although his mood seems much more stable than in the morning, the associate is still cautious, all too aware of how little he can truly trust himself.

Mike comes to the sudden realisation that the problem _behind_ his volatility is that he's been fighting it so hard. And so begins another oath. Backed by another untested theory.

At dinner, he eats all of his greens without much fuss despite _really_ hating broccoli, but finds himself slipping up and accidentally calling them _trees -_ something he hasn't done since he was two years old and that was what he genuinely believed them to be.

Then afterwards when he doesn't want to shower but Harvey pushes him into taking one anyway, Mike cried for a good ten minutes because the water was too runny and the shampoo smelled funny.

The stress of trying to go along with everything, - chiefly the things that his younger self _doesn't_ want to do - in order to avoid a tantrum only increases the odds of having a tantrum, and Mike is left feeling like he can't get anything right. No matter where he turns, he faces opposition.

It's-he's just… He's just so damn tired.

Tired of blaming himself and tired of blaming Harvey.

Tired of keeping secrets; tired of wanting to tell his boss but having no idea _how_ to go about explaining the unexplainable. But most of all, Mike's tired of wanting _things_ in general that he knows he'll never have.

Like true independence and a normal life.

Like… like a father in a man that never signed up to be one.

By bedtime, Mike is shattered and so, when he fails to track down his treasured blankie, he gives a big F-you to his pride and trails into the living room.

Skimming through some briefs and kneading his temples with one hand, the older man is bent over the countertop looking frustrated and worn out. Second thoughts bounding forward, Mike tries to quietly back away but the blasted floorboard creaks and Harvey's head automatically snaps up.

Curiosity sharpens his gaze as he takes in Mike's bedraggled hair, clean-pressed pyjamas and bare feet.

"What's up, pal?" he wonders, straightening. "How come you aren't asleep?"

Swallowing his anxiety, Mike bites his lip and answers, "Uh, it's nothing, really. I was wondering… have you seen my-my, uh-" He rubs the back of his head, fluffing up his own hair and shuffling awkwardly.

"Spit it out, kiddo," the other man drawls with a touch of amusement. "Whaddya need?"

"Do you know where I left my…er, my blanket?"

Harvey's eyes pounce onto his - whether due to Mike's all-too-transparent agitation or the question itself remains unseen, but Mike suddenly wishes he were anywhere else, shifting under the scrutiny.

"In the wash," Harvey replies carefully, his emerging frown mimicking the kid's. "Why?"

"No reason," Mike claims, unable to pull off the intended indifference as he twiddles his thumbs. "It's just… how am I supposed to-to… you know…" He coughs, cheeks flushing.

Pressing his lips together to mask his smile, Harvey says, "I have other blankets, buddy."

"Yeah, but-" he cuts off, frown deepening.

"But what?"

"It's not the _same_ ," Mike complains as tears well in his eyes. He sniffs. "I don't _want_ another blanket!"

Harvey blinks. This is obviously not at all what he'd expected.

There's a moment of silence as the other man considers this.

"Well," he suddenly says, rubbing his chin in feigned thought. "I know trucks and racecars are great and all, but do you know who's even cooler?"

Mike glances up at him inquisitively. "Who?"

Lowering his voice dramatically, Harvey breathes, "Spider Man."

"Spider Man?" Mike parrots, smiling faintly.

"Uh-huh." He nods quickly. "He's awesome. Always saving the day and um, swinging from buildings and fighting bad guys," Harvey improvises in a cheerful, persuasive tone that verges on ridiculous. He knows little to nothing about superheroes, but Mike doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, but-but-" Looking dangerously close to stamping his foot, Mike whines, "I don't _have_ a Spider Man blanket!"

"Are you sure?" Harvey asks, forcing a puzzled frown. "Because I was _certain_ that I bought one a few days ago… Silly me. I must've imagined it!"

Now _Mike's_ feeling kind of silly. What if he has had a cooler blanket all along?

"Well," the boy chews on his thumb, "I don't know that I _don't_ have one."

"Have you looked?"

"Well, no…"

"Then you know what you have to do, don't you?" Harvey says gravely.

"…Check?"

He nods.

"It's the only way."

The best thing was that Harvey never informed Mike _where_ he'd stashed the bedspread and so, laughing ecstatically the entire time, the kid raced around the condo in search for over an hour, prompted by the older man's vague clues, and fell asleep snuggling into a unremarkable, run of the mill red and blue blanket with a triumphant smile on his face.

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The next day, things _really_ started to go downhill.

In the morning, Harvey and Mike had squabbled over the associate's insistence that he work in the bullpen with everyone else instead of camping out in the senior partner's office, - firmly against any kind of special treatment - while the other man insisted that he needed to stay close for a reason that he had such difficulty defining that Mike felt bad and let him off the hook.

They eventually came to a reluctant agreement (reluctant on _both_ sides. Can I have a _yay_ for compromise) that Mike could work alongside the others, but that Harvey would check in at random intervals to see that everything ran smoothly.

And run smoothly it did - at least until the other's started noticing their superior's mysterious pop ups and naturally assumed that something important was happening (like they were getting judged or evaluated or some crap like that). Mike did his best to brush if off, but they weren't for backing down easily.

"Ross, come on, we know you know."

"Yeah," Gregory chimes, "Why so secretive, Golden boy? Trying to trick us or something?"

"Or maybe he's just _afraid_ ," Kyle taunts, grinning wickedly, "That Specter's finally come to his senses and realised what a lame-ass lawyer he hired. Maybe he's considering a replacement, eyeing up the candidates. What's the chances? Maybe Twinkle Toes here _doesn't_ know."

"Look, guys, can we just drop it, okay? Some of us are trying to work here." Mike's suddenly regretting his choice not to run and hide in Harvey's office when he had the chance. If he leaves now, it'll just look like he can't handle it and then he'll _never_ get to strike any similar bargains to proof his trustworthiness ever again.

"Not _you_ , that's for sure," Kyle scoffs, voice drenched in derision. "What'd you get today? Three briefs? Man, I could get that done in an _hour_."

"Yes, okay. I'm sure you could."

"No, really. What's up with that? Don't think we haven't noticed the unfair distribution of our workload. You been slacking off, Ross?"

"Kyle, if you have so much time on your hands that you can say with one-hundred percent certainty just how much work I actually get done in a day, then maybe _you're_ the one slacking off."

At this point, Mike's just talking through his ass. He knows his work has been meagre as of late; he doesn't need any additional attention called to his incompetence. It's already there - in the pitiful stack of files he was allocated this morning.

Choruses of, _"Ooh, buuurn,"_ resound through the bullpen, but Mike just rolls his eyes and carries on proof-reading. Or at least he does until a hand smacks down on top of his, stilling his movements.

His whole being freezes, the blood in his veins turning cold.

"You think you can take me, Pretty Boy?" Kyle whispers feverishly, balls of spit spewing onto Mike's turned-away face, which he then holds in place. "You think I can't beat you to a pulp if I wanted to? Like I _do_ want to? The only reason you're still here is because Specter feels _sorry_ for you. Do you get that? You are so _pathetic_ that even the most cold-hearted of bastards feels like it wouldn't be _sporting_ to a - what is it? Oh, yeah, to kick a _pup_ when it's down."

"Shut-up, Kyle," Mike snarls, infuriated and scared, and aggravated because he really wants Harvey and where _is_ he?

"Don't you think it's _funny_?" he sneers. "Hilarious, really. Everyone thinks so. The way you look at him like he's the centre of the goddamn universe and he looks at you like you're nothing more than a puppy-dog eyed _child_ who can't be trusted not to shove crayons-" Kyle pauses, chuckling. "Or in your case, _highlighters_ up his nose."

That hits closer to home than Mike would like to admit.

Helpless to prevent it, he feels his eyes begin to water. But before he can embarrass himself further, a voice ominously rumbles, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

And Kyle damn near jumps out of his skin.

"Nothing, sir," he stutters, tripping in his haste to turn. "Absolutely nothing."

"Would you care to explain _why_ you were fisting my associate's collar?"

In that moment, Harvey has never looked more frightening. His eyes are on fire, burning a hole into the quivering man's head with scarcely restrained fury.

It would be mesmerizing if Mike weren't suddenly so afraid for Kyle's life.

Kyle, on the other hand, looks like he might wet his pants.

Striving for nonchalance in an exceptionally stupid lapse of judgement, he scoffs, "We were just _messing_ _around_."

For that comment alone, part of Mike thinks he kind of deserves the fist which soon connects with his face.

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There's a moment of stunned silence.

Then, in a explosion of energy and haste, disbelieving chaos all at once.

Arms are suddenly fixed around his, restraining Harvey as he thrashes for a moment without really trying to break free, breathing hard as his nostrils irately flare.

He allows himself to be dragged off to one side as the crowd of spectators swarm the victim. Red gushes down Kyle's flummoxed face, and the general atmosphere of the bullpen seems to be, ' _Did that seriously just happen?'_ as employees struggle to comprehend how the great Harvey Specter, of all people, could precipitately lose his shit.

"What the hell is the matter with you?!" At the sound of Mike's strained voice cracking in distress, he abruptly stills. "Harvey, will you calm the fuck down?! _Jesus_."

Only weakly incapacitated and uncontrollably furious, he growls, "That son of a bitch just tried to threaten and humiliate you!"

" _Seriously_? _That's_ your biggest concern right now?!" the kid cries incredulously and it's enough to knock some sense back into Harvey and smother the blinding fury. "That 'son of a bitch' is bleeding thanks to you!"

"Yes, but he just-"

"It doesn't matter _what_ he did! You _assaulted_ him, Harvey!"

Holy crap - he really did.

Gazing down at his blood-spattered knuckles and slowly unclenching his still-fisted hand, Harvey sags, feeling the grip around his shoulders loosen.

How could he have let his anger get the better of him? He has so much more self-restraint than that! Sweet Jesus - what has he done? How could he have been so _stupid_?

And then another voice, soft but unforgiving: But the tool hurt _Mike_ -

Dragging a hand through his hair, the senior partner breathes, "I know, I know..." He swallows hard. "I-I don't know what came over me."

Mike's face suddenly warps into the strangest of expressions. If the other man's not mistaken, it looks… it looks almost like guilt.

He licks his lips and offers nervously, "Gotta say, though, whatever kind of evil spirit or demon possessed you, it was pretty badass. That was one helluva punch." But the attempt at light-heartedness, unsurprisingly, falls flat.

Especially when Mike's hand then reaches up, thumb seeking his lips.

"Hey, hey," Harvey scolds with a grimace, as he tugs the hand away before the boy can sink his teeth into it. "None of that, buddy. We talked about this, remember? What did I say?"

Mike studiously averts his eyes and mumbles, "It's-it's icky."

Not his exact wording, but close enough.

"Uh-huh," he nods. "So no more silly nipping your skin, okay? You might need those hands someday."

"Yes, sir," Mike murmurs, even as he rubs his nose with the spare hand that will undoubtedly inch towards his mouth as soon as Harvey looks the other way.

He sighs.

"Listen," Harvey begins, "I'm sorry, kiddo. I never should have reacted like that. It was wrong and you should never do that." He scowls, muttering to himself, "What kind of example am I setting if I retaliate using violence every time someone pisse-uh," he swiftly changes tracks, "Ticks me off?"

Eyes widening, Mike hurries to assure, "Nothing! No example whatsoever! I'm a big boy-" He cringes at the wording, before gritting his teeth and amending, "I'm a grown _man_ , who can make up his own mind. As my _boss_ and occasional mentor, I look to you for guidance and professional advice, but beyond that, my choices are my own to accept full accountability."

"Okay…" Harvey frowns. Kid's acting weird. "Are you-are you feeling okay? I didn't-" Flinching, he hesitantly asks, "I didn't scare you, did I?"

"God, no!"

He doesn't _sound_ afraid. "And you're alright?"

"No reason not to be," Mike laughs, voice wavering slightly.

Harvey wonders if it's possible the pup's going into shock and denial, before concluding that it seems highly likely, given the way he's acting.

"I did just punch a man and the cops will probably be here any minute."

"Well, yes," Mike grants, still sounding off. "All I'm saying is that I am psychologically sound and not at all traumatized by this turn of events."

Brow tightening, the older man hums in not-quite agreement.

"I'm not!" he exclaims defensively, shrill voice compromising his credibility just a tad.

"I never said you were," Harvey responds calmly.

"You don't have to," Mike rebuts. "You have that look in your eye. The same one you always get every time I tell you that I've already brushed my teeth and you don't believe me."

His lips curve into an involuntary smirk. "Well, I'm sorry that it's so easy to recognize a blatant lie from a terrible liar."

"For the last time, I am not-"

Whatever retort Mike was about to provide, dies on his lips when a sudden hush ensnares the entire room. Spines stiffen and many straighten to full height and attempt to enrich their discreditable appearance with an adjusted tie here and a sweaty palm wipe down the front of their pants there (looking at you, Harold).

All gazes lock on the slim figure that has graced the silent bullpen, expression smooth and impenetrable, and the senior partner shares an ever-so-slightly nervous glance with Mike, who shrinks back behind him.

"Harvey," Jessica addresses him with quiet irritation only he can discern from the pleasant coolness. "My office. Now."

He ignores the other occupants of the room and reassuringly squeezes the pup's shoulder, before setting his jaw and sauntering up to one seriously pissed off managing partner.

Pasting on a prickly smile as he reaches her side, Jessica leans down to murmur lowly into his ear, "You and I both know this talk is _long_ overdue."

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_Oh, no :/ I would_ not _want to be in Harvey's position, having to face the wrath of Jessica Pearson. Love the character to pieces and all, but damn, she can be scary when she wants to be._

_And poor Mike. Let's hope he doesn't continue to wallow in self-pity (although he's entirely entitled to when you think about it). Even if it does make him do super cute stuff._

_As always, thanks for reading! :D_


	6. Hold Your Ground

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**CHAPTER FIVE:**

Hold Your Ground

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**A/N:** This chapter was kinda difficult to write purely because I was having trouble sitting in one place and focusing. I kept thinking, 'Oh, it's alright. I'll fiddle around with this for a bit and then tomorrow, I'll write properly,' without _really_ getting anything done. So sorry for that. I guess when you're writing the same piece for a while, you sort of forget sometimes that there are people who are still interested and would ideally like an update sooner rather than later. Basically, this one sort of lost its urgency and I'll try to do better next time.

I've also noticed a recurring trend in my author's notes. I really need to stop apologising ;)

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language and the almost-certainly incorrect Star Trek references (Never seen it, so blame Google for any inaccuracies)._

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**Previously** -pasting on a prickly smile as he reaches her side, Jessica leans down to murmur lowly into his ear, "You and I both know this talk is _long_ overdue."

* * *

"Before you say anything, can I just point out that this is a really expensive tie which now has specks of some douchebag's blood on it that will probably stain forever," the senior partner drawls, folding himself tastefully on the couch, posture perfect and smug and positively itching for a slap across the face. He even has the audacity to smirk, "Don't you think I've suffered enough?"

"Harvey," Jessica all but growls, "I am sincerely _not_ in the mood-"

"No, seriously," he persists, because you'd have to cram the damn thing down his throat if you ever intended for Harvey Specter to eat humble pie. "Not only will this serve as a reminder of my mistake, but it's a pretty considerable loss on my part and, in my professional opinion, an excellent deterrent. I genuinely think I've learned my lesson on this one, so if we could just skip-"

"That is _enough_ ," the managing partner breaks in, glaring fiercely. "You are not talking your way out of this one, Harvey. A cheeky grin isn't going to cut it this time."

"Jessica, look," Harvey sighs. "I know I screwed up-"

"Do you?" she counters, unforgiving hand on hip. "Because the jokes you've been cracking left, right and centre, don't exactly promote the notion that you're all that cut up about it."

"I'm _sorry_ , alright?" he drags, looking utterly bored and not the least bit chastised. "I'll take care of it."

"Take care of it?" she repeats incredulously, lips twitching in gratifying patronization. "And just how do you suppose you're going to do that?" Pausing as he shifts in annoyance, Jessica stalks towards him, smile slipping. "Let's get one thing clear, Harvey. You are in no position to sit there and act like you have any goddamn power over this. In fact, your word is about as useful to me right now as that damn kid's imaginary law degree."

"Now, wait just a goddamn minute-" the senior partner snaps irately.

Pleased to finally get a genuine reaction out of him, Jessica decides to rile him up a little more.

"Let's look at the facts, shall we?" she coolly proposes. "You assaulted a subordinate in front of a throng of witnesses unprovoked, so there goes your grounds for plausible deniability. Should the associate decide to press charges, you _will_ go down for it, even though I sure as hell will do my part to bail you out. The firm's reputation will be jeopardized and there will undoubtedly be clients - high-profile, influential clients - who will take their business elsewhere. Had it been someone with a lesser status than yours, - maybe another quiet, low key partner - then the fallout probably wouldn't be so great, but because it's _you_ -" She pauses, mouth twisting wryly. "You can bet your ass both competitors and clientele will be _very_ interested in how the best damn closer in the city could react with such spectacular unprofessionalism. And honestly?" Slowly shaking her head, his friend and boss adds, "I find myself wondering the exact same thing."

He grimaces. "Jessica…"

"It was reckless and impulsive," Jessica states harshly. "Face it, Harvey. You let your anger get the better of you and now I'm the one who has to clean up your shit."

Fisting his hair, Harvey demands in frustration, "Can you at least hear me out? The guy was harassing _Mike_. I couldn't just stand idly by and let that jackass continue bullying the kid. I'm not saying what I did was right, trust me; I should have dealt with it better. But that doesn't change the fact that he definitely had it coming."

Passionate and unwavering, it's his eyes that surprise her the most.

Jessica has never seen Harvey like this.

He's not totally unrepentant, she can see that. But his attitude seems to be that anyone who dares mess with Mike deserves what they get, which is the farthest thing from what she's come to expect.

The man has always been protective of the kid despite his claims, but this... this is _personal_. He cares deeply for his associate in a way that rivals even his closeness and fierce loyalty to Donna or even Jessica herself - an attachment he could never seem to achieve romantically because sooner or later, the commitment-phobe can't help but shut down. He is defensive and concerned, and by some small miracle, he's not even remotely attempting to screen it. It's as if the senior partner feels he has every right to be.

Damn.

Jessica never thought she'd see the day that Harvey Specter acted like a father.

"Whether you personally feel his actions merited your own hostility or not is neither here nor there," she responds unbendingly, nevertheless. "This is only Kyle's second week back following his suspension, and you go and pull a stupid stunt like this? Tell me, how is that supposed to help Mike? I don't care if it was an 'in the moment' kind of thing, because the Harvey Specter that _I_ know would never lose control and then make excuses for it. You have been perfectly content to sit on the sidelines and let Louis handle the situation up until now and I fail to see how that could possibly have changed."

Harvey's entire body goes rigid.

His voice is tight and controlled when he asks, "What _situation_?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Harvey." She rolls her eyes. "Mike's history with the other associates is far from squeaky clean and you can't possibly expect me to believe that you are not well-versed in-"

"Allow me to rephrase. What 'situation,'" he questions scathingly, air quotes at the ready, "Is Louis handling and why the hell don't I know about it?"

Jessica pauses. "Are you telling me that you _didn't_ know of Kyle's suspension?"

"Do I _look_ like I knew?" he fires back, eyes darkening. "As far as I could see, this incident was a one-time thing, but apparently, I was mistaken. What else have you been keeping from me? Just what are we talking about here?"

"I assure you, Harvey, it was not my intention to keep this a secret," the managing partner frowns. "I was under the impression that Louis had spoken with you regarding the issue-"

"So Louis is to blame, then? He's the reason I was left in the dark?" Harvey bites. "Mike is _my_ associate and if he's been a victim of gross misconduct, then I should have been the first to know. I want to know how that little prick got away with what was essentially a slap on the wrist when, given today's performance, he should have been thrown out, no hesitation. It's clear he hasn't reformed and I wonder at Louis' ability to deal with the situation _whatever_ the situation is that he didn't see fit to enlighten _me_."

By the end, the lawyer is breathing hard, chest heaving.

Taken aback by the extent of his anger, Jessica attempts to mollify, "I'm sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation-"

"I very much doubt that," he interrupts, tone brazenly derisive. "Mike is _my_ responsibility and there is no excuse for not informing the _one_ person who is supposed to protect him."

And with that, it suddenly hits her. There lay the real root of the problem.

Sure, Harvey is furious for not being told, but he's also berating himself for not having _seen_. In his mind, it's his duty to keep Mike safe, and he failed. He wasn't there for the boy when he needed him and that is - apparently - a wholly unforgivable offence.

Jessica can try all she likes, but she can't prohibit it - the managing partner feels herself softening. She just feels so damn _proud_ , all of a sudden.

"Harvey," she says gently, "I understand you're upset, but now is not the time-"

"You're goddamn right I'm upset! I _knew_ there was something bothering him but he wouldn't tell me!"

He stops, brows wrinkling, before murmuring in a small, crestfallen voice unlike anything she's ever heard from him before, "Why didn't he tell me?"

Hesitantly taking a seat beside him, Jessica sighs, reaching out to awkwardly rub his shoulder in comfort. This is all new territory - for both of them. "Maybe he didn't want you to think any less of him," she speculates after a few moments.

He snorts. "Or maybe he assumed I'd be a heartless jerk and sneer at him for making a fuss over it."

Wincing because there is an element of truth to that too, the managing partner offers, "At this point, all you can do is be supportive and show that you'll be there for him no matter what. Hopefully in the future, he'll feel he can lean on you a bit more."

"And if he doesn't?" Harvey worries, glancing at her almost nervously.

She toughens her voice. "Simple. You try harder."

Part of her is tempted to laugh at the absurdity. For God's sake, is she really doling out _parenting_ advice? What is the world coming to?

It's a moment Jessica knows she will file away to examine later. That kid has Harvey wrapped around his finger, that's for sure, and the funny thing is, he'd probably be the last person to recognise it, too.

The office is silent for a handful of minutes, both minds busy processing, before the senior partner glimpses at the clock on the far wall and his eyes narrow.

"Hang on a second…" he puzzles out, brows furrowing. More silence, then: "He's not going to press charges, is he?"

She keeps her expression blamelessly blank.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You just wanted to make me sweat," Harvey claims, voice sharpened with disbelief as he jumps up and glowers. When she fails to take the bull by the horns and chime in with a surefire defence, only continuing to gaze back steadily, he adds confidently, "If that little jerkwad was going to do anything, the cops would have shown up already."

"Harvey," A grin slowly breaks out on her face. "He can't do jack shit. If he did, we'd nail him for harassment and file for instant dismissal. You seriously thought this was his first offence?" She chuckles quietly at his naivety.

Shaking his head, the lawyer exclaims, "I can't believe you!"

"Rest assured, this is not the first time that 'jerk-wad' has gotten into trouble with the law and it won't be the last."

One. Two. Three-

"You have dirt on him," Harvey accuses, both irritated and impressed in equal parts.

Tilting her head to one side, Jessica doesn't have to curve her lips to smile. "Better question: who _don't_ I have dirt on?"

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From his right, Mike can see Donna shooting his jiggling leg a death glare he tries not to take too personally.

He knows that his restless movements must be annoying the hell out of her, but he can't help it.

Mike's packed with nervous energy, worried about Harvey namely, but also about the uncertain state of his job, and to a degree, he's wondering about Kyle and whether or not his nose is, in effect, fractured. Staying still is becoming increasingly more difficult and all the associate wants to do is jump up and run (maybe even throw in a couple of crazy star-jumps) until he gets it out of his system, but he can't - or, at least, he won't - because he needs to stick around to find out the final verdict on Harvey.

This isn't the first time that his boss has been in the doghouse with Jessica, but it is the only time that Mike has ever had an infallible cause to be concerned. Donna keeps telling him everything will work out, and it's clear that she does truly believe what she's saying and is not just bullshitting him, but he doesn't let himself hope.

He did just see him punch a guy, after all.

Around the same time he begins chomping on his wrist just for something to do, the heavens take mercy on him. The redhead's gasp alerts him of Harvey's arrival and his hanging head shoots up.

Spreading his arms as wide as his grin, Harvey announces, "Well, that's that. I'm free to go. The twerp's not pressing charges."

"What? How come? What happened?" Donna grills, to which the man simply laughs.

"Let's just say, Jessica can be very... persuasive," he replies evasively, but he should have known she wouldn't be dissuaded that easily.

Eyes sparkling, the woman questions, "She still mad?"

"Not _mad,_ exactly," he hedges. "Though she certainly won't be in any hurry to forget. I, on the other hand, would like to put the incident behind me as soon as possible. Violence is wrong, lesson learned. Ready to let it go?"

"Depends. You going to apologise?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Hell, no."

"Then we're good," Donna says brightly. "So long as we're on the same page."

Smirking, Harvey poses, "Was there ever any doubt?"

She beams. "Oh, we were on the brink of a marital crisis."

After that, it's only a matter of herding Mike into his coat and pushing him out the door.

As guilty as Mike feels about their spur of the moment day off, Harvey has no such qualms and is dedicated to keeping the youngster's mind off the earlier events of the morning. Donna accompanies them when they go out for lunch, the two 'adults' light-heartedly ribbing each other and doggedly attempting to draw him into the conversation while he unenthusiastically pushes his fork around, which soon results in Harvey telling him off for playing with his food. Afterwards, they convene in the living area of the condo and Donna bribes Mike into watching Tangled with the promise of mini-marshmallows and a steamy mug of hot chocolate. Harvey hadn't exactly approved of her methods, but did seem pleased that the kid seemed to come out his shell a little, perking up midway through the film and shooting question after question about the plot at a thoroughly amused Donna. The fact that he still had Jellybean's foot lodged in his mouth tampered his relief somewhat, but hey, at least the boy was speaking.

The ball at the pit of Mike's stomach doesn't weaken, though, as he waits for the lecture he recognises looming on the horizon. All of the distractions only succeed for so long before he glances over at his boss and the anxiety returns full-force. The last thing he wants is to have to divulge intimate details of the malicious behaviour of his colleagues the past three months, all the while knowing that Harvey is disappointed in him.

When the time comes for Donna to leave, Mike scarcely restrains himself from flinging his arms around her neck and pleading within an inch of his life for the woman to take him with her.

Yet, to Mike's surprise, Harvey doesn't pressure him into spilling the goods. He doesn't demand answers or seek any specifics. He doesn't ask why Mike kept the issue to himself or play the I-thought-you-trusted-me card.

Before leaving to prepare dinner, the lawyer simply pats his knee and says, "I'm here for you, got it? If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. I won't judge or rush to fix it; I'll just listen, okay?" Taking advantage of Mike's silence as he all but gapes in shock, Harvey sums up, "Just remember that I'm always willing to help and I'd never do anything that you're uncomfortable with."

Mike blinks.

Huh.

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* * *

It isn't over-the-top.

It is a legitimate testimony now, which Mike can state with one-hundred percent sincerity and not feel the least bit unjust.

His body, volatile and vindictive as it is, has officially declared war. And he's on the losing side.

Looking back, the night had started out innocent enough. Following his talk with Harvey, Mike was dog-tired after a tension-filled day, kneading his eyes and blinking profusely, and had crawled into bed gratefully. Not before saying goodnight to Harvey, of course - a night-time ritual which is now somehow comprised of a warm hug and a habitual hair ruffle, something he's not certain when or how came to pass. It didn't feel strange to totter into what he'd taken to terming 'his' room after inarticulately mumbling a 'night-night' to his boss, while suckling leisurely on his slimy thumb, blankie slung over one shoulder. Nor was it weird for Harvey to then - for the fifth time that week - remind him to deposit his grubby socks in the wash instead of sketchily shedding and abandoning them on the floor.

What _was_ odd, however, was the ring of warmth staining the saturated sheets, which Mike strongly suspected wasn't caused by sweat, as well as his incriminatingly damp pyjama bottoms when he rouses early the next morning.

For a moment, he doesn't dare to breathe.

Doesn't dare to believe.

He, Mike Ross of questionably mature status, has just-he just-how could he really wet-

One infinitesimal movement and he _feels_ rather than hears the muted squelch.

Gnawing on his already fragile psyche, it starts somewhere deep inside - wringing out his stomach muscles and crushing his ribs, a cramping of his diaphragm as his spinal cord judders, gagging on air in a hopelessly dedicated bid to keep the tears at bay.

Mike shoves a fist into his mouth to asphyxiate his cries, chest heaving with the tremendous force of his distress as his jaw clenches around his flesh. Against his best efforts, a sob breaks loose, nostrils flaring in clipped, vehement exhales.

He's shaking all over, rocking mechanically.

 _This is it,_ Mike thinks. This is what it's come to.

It has never been as clear as it is right then that it-it's over. His life - as he knows it - is _over_. Just like that.

By now, one would imagine he'd have at least semi-accepted his doom, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The young associate honestly did not see this one coming and he's blind-sided and betrayed, and the grief alone for what-will-never-be is very nearly all-consuming.

It simply isn't _fair_. Nobody promised Mike the world, but he just went ahead and bloody well dreamt of it anyway. It feels like everything he has worked so hard for is being ripped away just as he's finally getting his shit together.

And the fact that his automatic reaction is to cry like a goddamn overgrown baby? Just pisses him off all the more.

Perhaps in the back of his mind, Mike registers the oncoming footsteps hurrying down the hall or the door being wrenched open or the sharp intake of breath, but for the most part, he's too immersed in his battle of trying really, really hard not to break down.

Safe to say, mission failed.

"Mike, puppy, are you o-" Harvey cuts off, freezing.

Gaze drawn to the sickening, soiled state of the boy's bed, his boss's face crumples in understanding marred by bald-faced sympathy, while Mike's cheeks are engulfed in flames, wishing more than anything that someone would shoot him in the head and put him out of his misery. It would be the humane thing to do.

The humiliation that burns through his system is unbearable.

"Aw, buddy…"

Mike whimpers.

"Didn't-didn't mean to!"

"I know you didn't, puppy," Harvey soothes, spurred into action. "It's okay." Careful to avoid the soaked area, he perches on the edge of the bed and brings Mike into a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to his temples and relaxingly rubbing his back.

"Didn't-didn't-" Rubbing his congested nose, the kid hiccups. "Didn't mean to, H'vey. M'sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, kiddo," Harvey states firmly, but Mike turns away and refuses to look at him. Brows bunching, the older man gently grasps his chin and tilts his head towards him, before declaring, "I mean it, Mike. This is not your fault. I don't blame you and I don't want you blaming yourself."

He shakes his head, eyes rimmed red and stubbornly leaking. "But I'm not a'spposed to-"

"Mike, seriously, it's okay," Harvey repeats, meeting his anguished gaze unflinchingly. His grip tightens as he attempts to placate, "Little boys have accidents all the time. It's no big deal-"

Mike stills.

Like an elastic band snapping into place, a dash of adult ( _teenage_ ) comprehension is restored. Enough for him to counter with uncharacteristic coldness, "I'm not a little boy."

Harvey blinks.

"What?"

"I'm not a little boy," he repeats, a muscle in his cheek compressing. "I'm a man. A fully fledged man." Shrugging out of the lawyer's offhand embrace, arm falling away, Mike grits, "Remember?"

"I know that," he replies, but Harvey looks visibly uncertain, forehead tight as if blasted by a sudden headache. "I'm just saying-"

"Why are you here, anyhow? I _know_ I didn't make that much noise."

"I-I-"

"Do you check on me? At night?" Mike doesn't even give him a chance to answer before shaking his head and scoffing in disbelief, "Scratch that. What am I saying? Of course, you do. But that still doesn't explain how you knew I was upset now. It's way too early for you to be up."

Any other day and that look on Harvey's face would have made him back-pedal, but his pride has just taken a severe blow (don't forget, he's imprisoned by the evidence of his own disgrace. Ha - _forget_. He won't ever forget) and Mike is as merciless as his goddamn lazy bladder.

"Don't feed me any bullshit, either, about how you just magically 'knew' or whatever. I want the truth."

Dark eyes roaming over his hard, cynical expression, the senior partner shifts and all of a sudden, like the flick of a switch, it's Harvey The Bastard Lawyer seated beside him, not Harvey I've-Only-Got-Your-Best-Interests-At-Heart. Or maybe they're just one and the same, Mike can't tell anymore. And he doesn't really care to, at any rate.

Cool and unflustered, he juts out his chin and if he'd been wearing a tie, Mike supposes he would have ran a blasé hand along the silky fabric to smooth it. "The truth?" Harvey double-checks, blatantly appraising him.

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Alright, tough guy. I didn't have a damn Spidey-sense tingling. Neither did the situation call for freakin' super-powers. You wanna know how I knew?" Smirking like the goddamn jackass he is, Harvey shrugs, "Because I installed a baby-monitor nearly two weeks ago."

"You-you what?" Mike stutters.

He did not just hear what he thinks he just heard.

"Yeah. I did. And, you know what else?" Voice drenched in sarcasm, he affirms, "Shocker of shockers, I'm not sorry, either."

"Harvey, you-you have no right!" the associate rages, spluttering in incredulity, "That is a gross invasion of privacy! How _could_ you?!"

"Surprisingly easily, actually. I just walked into the store, asked the salesclerk which brand he'd recommend and hey presto, there you go; I had my very own sophisticated walkie talkie."

"You're a dick."

"And you're an annoying, ungrateful pain in my backside. I didn't do it for kicks, Mike. I had my reasons and honestly, I'm under no real obligation to share them with you."

"I think the electrical device you've been using to spy on me would argue otherwise."

"And I think that until you drop that holier-than-thou attitude, my lips are sealed."

Blowing out an exasperated breath, Mike gathers his composure and asks almost evenly, "Can you please explain to me why you felt the need to put me under surveillance behind my back?"

"You know," Harvey purses his lips, "I'm not really feeling it."

"Tough shit," Mike promptly returns. "It's as close are you're gonna get."

Sighing in sudden seriousness, the senior partner scrubs a hand over his face and confides, "Listen, kiddo. I get that you're angry, and to some extent, I even get that you have every right to be. But try and see this from my perspective for a minute, alright? It wasn't an easy decision on my part."

Narrowing his eyes, the kid points out, "But you said you didn't regret it."

"I know what I said and I still stand by it. I won't apologise. But that doesn't signify that I _wanted_ to do it. It was purely necessity."

"You lost me. How exactly was such an outrageously extreme measure necessary?"

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Actually, it's not as extreme as you might think, okay? I only switch it on at night, and I mean it when I say that I don't take it lightly." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he pauses, considering, before continuing, "You were having a lot of nightmares, Mike. Or at least, you weren't sleeping very peacefully. I was-" He swallows, "I was worried. So I'd…I would-Sometimes-"

Mike cocks his head, frowning slightly as he prompts, "You would…?"

"I'd sing to you, okay?" the other man confesses as if it physically pains him. "I'd sing a few verses of something or another. It never really mattered what. And then you'd… you'd be fine. I tried other crap, too. Like, playing some classical music or soothing meditation tracks so that I wouldn't be constantly getting up to see if maybe you were unsettled, but nothing worked. Then as soon as I opened my mouth…"

He trails off, mouth tight, and doesn't finish. But he doesn't need to.

Feeling an involuntary pang of guilt, Mike wonders, "Why didn't you tell me? Why don't I know about this?"

"You're an exceptionally deep sleeper," Harvey says plainly. "And I didn't really see the sense in bringing it up."

Well, shoot.

There goes his righteous indignation.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Mike stares down at his lap and plays with his fingers, before timidly offering, "I'm, uh, I'm sorry, Harvey. I had no idea."

Oh, God. Now he feels terrible.

"Tell you what," Harvey murmurs, carding his fingers through the pup's hair and smiling softly. "So long as you promise to sit through Star Trek without saying a single thing about Captain Kirk's sideburns, we can call it even. Sound fair?"

"Mm.. It'll be pretty hard…" he drawls, chewing on his bottom lip. "But I think I can manage that. Probably. Maybe. On second thought, you've set the bar far too high. No comments? At all? That's damn near impossible. C'mon, they're _pointy_."

Harvey grins. "Yeah, yeah. Just try alright?"

"Well, that's entirely subjective, but sure. Sounds neat-o."

"Neat-o?"

He half-shrugs. "Would you prefer cheato?"

Huffing a breath of amusement, Harvey rolls his eyes and changes the subject. "Come on, champ." He bumps his shoulder. "We should probably get you changed out of those wet clothes. It's almost bright outside, anyway. You get dressed; I'll tackle this end of things. Then we can go get an early breakfast." Seeing Mike's face fall, he pastes on nonchalance and entices, "It'll be great. Look, one time only deal: I'll make pancakes. Whaddya say?"

Peeking up out of the corner of his eye, the kid hesitantly nods. Mike can't quite contain his grimace, though, when his bottoms slowly peel away from the sheets as he rises and the damp patch around his crotch becomes visible. Yet Harvey seems unperturbed, and it is from him that he draws the strength to shuffle out of his dirty garments and into a clean pair of pants. The relief is instantaneous.

It isn't until twenty minutes later when his boss - _mentor.. friend.. guardian.. hero.._ \- is mixing the batter that he recalls another piece of the puzzle that has yet to slot into place.

"Just out of curiosity," Mike pipes up, leaning across the counter and licking a spoon of peanut butter (don't judge him. He's in serious need of some comfort food). "Where exactly did you hide it?"

"Hide what?" he questions casually.

"Don't play dumb with me. That monitor - where'd you put it?"

The twinkle in Harvey's eye is definitely not in his imagination.

"Under the bed," he finally comes clean, fighting a smile. "You know…" Reaching up and scratching his chin, the senior partner thoughtfully remarks, "I'm sort of surprised those monsters haven't already devoured it."

No matter what he says, Harvey totally deserves that punch on the arm.

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* * *

It doesn't end.

He tries everything and it still. Doesn't. End.

Every night before bed, Harvey kindly reminds him to go to the bathroom and enforces a new rule of no drinks after six. As well as this, Mike is banned from anything caffeine-related, which isn't as big an adjustment as he expected. The older man has gradually cut down his coffee intake almost without him noticing and made his views on Mike's redbull dependence perfectly clear.

When this fails to make any difference, the boy even goes so far as to set an alarm, but he still finds himself blushing furiously every time he wakes up.

Of the seven days that week, Mike stays dry one night. _One_.

And that was after throwing away all of his drinks that day, dumping them into a drawer at his desk or burying them under his pillow and almost getting himself hooked up to an IV line in the process (he really was not that bad. Harvey was just being…Harvey). It took a ridiculous amount of persuasion (begging) to discourage the man from taking him straight to the hospital and after having to slurp down every single juice box under the senior partner's watchful eye, from the bottom of his heart, Mike sincerely regretted his actions.

Nonplussed, Harvey encourages him to visit a doctor or specialist, but he steadfastly refuses. Chalking it up to embarrassment, his boss doesn't push the issue, but Mike can see he is growing more concerned by the minute.

The associate is scared to sleep, dreading the subsequent morning and flinching whenever he overhears the word 'accident.'

Yet it all pales in comparison to the pivotal moment when Harvey sits him down and utters what is possibly the worst phrase of all phrases in the history of phrases, "We need to talk."

Oh, hell no.

Abort, abort!

Placing his palms over his ears, Mike squeezes his eyes shut and sings, "La la la la la la-"

"Mike-"

"I can't hear you!"

" _Mike_ ," Harvey says sternly, gently removing his hands. "You can't avoid this forever."

"I can and I will," he petulantly retorts, diving under his covers and curling up into a ball, tucking his knees under his chin. The older man sighs.

"I'm sorry, buddy," And he does sound genuinely remorseful, "But we need to discuss this. I've looked into it-"

"Oh, God," he groans.

"-And there's really nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of people, of all ages, wet the bed for a variety of reasons that are in actuality not within their control. It could be something medical-related or you may just out grow it-"

Who precisely is Harvey addressing anyway? The child, the teen, or his grown-ass associate?

"But until then," he persists, not without sympathy. "It's probably best to have some kind of protective measure in place."

Shrinking in on himself and wincing, Mike dares to ask, "What are you saying?"

He doesn't have to perceive the senior partner's face to be aware of his grimace. "I'm talking about disposable underwear," Harvey explicates quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. Before the kid has the chance to baulk, he hurries to explain, "Just hear me out. They're efficient and hygienic, and the only person who will know will be me. It's not intended to humiliate or punish you in any way. I'm only suggesting this because it's preventing you from getting a full night's rest and we're sort of running low on options, kiddo. But it is entirely your decision. I won't force it on you. However, I do honestly believe this is the most sensible thing to do."

Voice wobbly and hoarse, Mike mumbles, "M'not a baby."

"I know you're not, bud," he rushes to assure. "Like I've said, many people have this difficulty and it's not childish whatsoever. If anything, this is actually the mature way to handle the situation because you'd be taking responsibility to manage the problem."

The hardest thing to recognize is that the man does in fact have a point.

It _is_ time to take action, and rather than sitting in the corner feeling sorry for himself, it's time for Mike to accept his newfound 'condition' and move on. And the best way to do that is just that.

He needs to try and 'manage the problem.'

And if that includes wearing pull-ups or adult diapers or whatever it need be to get through these excruciating nights, so be it.

So he agrees - _inwardly dying a little, naturally, but he needs time to come to terms with it_ \- and Harvey practically wilts in relief - _he probably expected to have something thrown at his face_ \- and after assuring he was alright for the tenth time, Harvey finally leaves him alone - _because he is fine. He's fine. He's going to be fine again_ \- leaving Mike to paw through his mass of dirty laundry for his cell.

Taking a deep breath, he browses his contacts and hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen, at the name that pops up.

No, he slowly exhales, he can do this. He needs to do this.

It's about time Mike returned Dr. Slater's stupid calls.

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_For the record, this was not a subject that I originally set out to touch on, but the idea came to me and I did some research and found that bedwetting into the teenage years or even adulthood is actually a fairly common problem. Obviously, it's different for Mike because I have to cater to both his teen and toddler selves, but I hope I covered the topic appropriately all the same._

_Also, is it just me or is Harvey really getting the hang of this whole heart-to-heart thing?_

_Thanks for reading._


	7. On Your Own

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**CHAPTER SIX:**

On Your Own

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**A/N:** All of my chapters are pretty fluffy, but this one is especially so. I had a tough week and wanted to write something to cheer myself up. This is not at all what I'd originally intended. It was supposed to be super serious, but whatever; I didn't really want to go there emotionally. If a few of you guys could maybe send an extra handful of reviews my way, that'd be great too. I'd really appreciate it.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Wednesday dawns clear skied and unpredictable.

Wearing only a baggy tee and tartan bottoms with stripes, Mike pads into the kitchen barefoot, giving his armpit a cautious sniff as he clambers onto a stool, before sleepily pillowing his head on the crook of his arm.

"Morning, puppy," Harvey greets from where he's fixing himself a bowl of that boring, all-bran cereal. It's obvious he has just returned from his daily jog, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and cheeks faintly flushed. "What would you like for breakfast? Toast sound acceptable?"

"No," Mike replies, still slumped over the counter top.

"Okay…" He racks his brain for another preference of Mike's. "What about some strawberries and waffles?"

He doesn't even pause before rejecting. "No."

"Well, those are your options, kiddo." With an unapologetic shrug, his boss says, "I'd offer you some of mine, but I know how much you hate any cereal that isn't cheerios, so what'll it be? Toast or waffles?"

He doesn't know what's gotten into him, but he wants to push just to see what might happen, and he needs to refuse if only to show he can. "No."

To Harvey's credit, he simply says, "Mike."

Bumping his nose against his arm and stubbornly shaking his head, the youngster stretches, "Noooooo."

"Alright, here's what's going to happen: I'm going to count to ten and you are going to choose or I'm going to choose for you and that'll be the end of it, got it?"

"But _Harrvvvyy_ ," Mike whines, lifting his head momentarily before flopping lifelessly down again.

"But nothing," he firmly refutes. Somewhat louder than his usual speaking voice but no less obstinate, the senior partner begins slowly, "One, two, three-"

Mike fidgets.

"-Four, five, six-"

Lips slip into a sullen pout.

"-Seven, eight, nine-"

"Okay, okay!" the boy interjects, succumbing to the pressure. "I'll have the toast." When Harvey simply raises a brow, he quickly tacks on, "Please."

"No problemo, kiddo," he cheerfully assents, ignoring Mike's resentful frown. Within minutes, a warm plate is placed in front of him along with another lousy juice box, blackcurrent in flavour, which he glowers at on principle. As if reading his mind, Harvey doesn't hesitate to intervene. "Nope," he effortlessly impedes, relaxed yet resolute. "We don't have time for any 'don't want its.' You are eating your toast, crust and all, and that's it."

As if some external force has invaded his mind, Mike can't stop himself from blurting, "No."

Harvey's nose twitches and the associate knows, right then, that he won't like what's coming next.

"Is that the only word in your vocabulary today?" he queries, not sounding the least bit amused. "I was kind enough to give you a choice, Mike. In future, I might not be so liberal. So you better believe it when I say that unless you wolf down at least _one_ slice of toast inside the next five minutes, I _will_ spoon-feed you for the rest of the week. If you want to act like a spoiled brat, then you'll be treated as one, simple as that."

"No fair!"

"On the contrary, I think you'll find that it's more than reasonable. You know you get cranky in the morning unless you've eaten and I, for one, am not in the mood to deal with any more temper tantrums."

Knuckling his eyes and not quite holding off the tears, Mike isn't even aware that he's been sucking on his thumb until he has to meekly consent around the blockage, "Fine."

"Good boy," Harvey softly praises, giving him a quick hug and kissing the top of his head. "Now, I'm going to go shower and when I get back, that plate better be clean, mister."

The kid nods, picking up the lukewarm bread and sluggishly pushing it against his lips as if to say, _See? I'm being totally agreeable. Look how well-behaved and pleasant I am._

"And when we get to the firm, you can take a little nap in my office if you're still tired, okay?" he proposes with a knowing look. Before Mike has the chance to object to that statement, the lawyer adds, "Plus, I think Jellybean might be feeling a little sad today." Mike doesn't know why, but that makes _him_ sad, brows furrowing in sympathy. "Maybe you should stay with him for a while. Just in case he gets a bit lonely."

"Okay," he agrees whole-heartedly, willing to do anything that might cheer up his furry pal and secretly promising to give him an extra-special cuddle later.

And if Mike just so happens to drop off during the middle of a very, very long hug after telling about ten different jokes that he's certain would brighten anyone's day, ("Hey, Jellybean. What do you call an alligator in a vest?" Blue eyes gazed back at him vacantly. "An In _vest_ igator!") then what's the harm anyway?

He's just being a good friend.

And if, unbeknownst to him, Harvey and Donna are left struggling to contain their mushy _awwwws,_ and the senior partner smiles upon seeing the boy's eyes have drifted closed before hunting down his favourite blankie to tuck him in, then what's the odds anyhow?

It's not like Harvey anticipated this moment.

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* * *

Much more refreshed and better rested, it's an extremely guilty, shame-faced Mike who awakens on the couch.

He should probably apologise.

Yet, just as Mike is about to sit up and stretch, he overhears a hushed, "No, I can't. My schedule is chock-full and I-"

Cracking open a curious lid, he finds that Harvey is on the phone and appears to be arguing, jaw cast in rigid infuriation with grave grooves of stress sculpted across his frown line.

"It's not about that," he murmurs quietly, "Jessica, I really can't-" Another long pause has him massaging his brow and sighing. "I don't even want to know how you found out about the kid staying with me, but it's actually none of your business. Mike…he's-" Hearing his name, Mike stills, assuming a peaceful expression and feeling eyes on him. "…He needs me right now. I can't go flying across the country. Not after-" the lawyer breaks off. "Look, LA is great and all - you know I'd love to join you and take down this bastard. But it's just not viable right now." His voice is even lower to utter, "No, absolutely not. I am not asking Donna to look after him." Almost whispering, "She killed her last goldfish."

"I trust her!" he exclaims after a moment. "I just…No, it doesn't matter - fine, she sprinkled some Oreo crumbs in the water. Poor little suckers didn't know what hit them."

All of a sudden, an indignant voice comes over the intercom, "Are you telling that fish-murderer story again?"

"No!"

"Good. Because we were both pretty drunk that night and you have no way to prove it was me."

"It was totally you," he grumbles, before finally responding to Jessica, "Moral of story is, I am unable to go. Go find some other lackey to do your bidding. I'm sure Louis will be delighted."

But since when has Jessica ever fought fair?

"Flattered as I may be," Harvey chuckles, "I'm still not sold. You're going to have to do better than point out things I already kno- Wait, wait, wait, seriously? You're kidding. You'll give me _how_ much for two days?! That's a pretty hefty bonus from someone who claims not to be desperate. You know what? You give me a weeks vacation afterwards _and_ repeat everything you've just said to me in front all of the partners, including Louis, and I'll even do it for free."

From the sounds of it, Jessica isn't exactly over the moon, but hey - a deal's a deal.

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* * *

Fast forward to an hour later and no countdown technique is going to nip Mike's newfound defiance in the bud.

"No," he avows, putting his foot down (and maybe, just maybe, unintentionally punctuating Harvey's point and stamping it too) and nowhere near ready to give in.

"Now, Mike-"

"No, we are not discussing this. I've had just about enough of you two ordering me around. Do not make me repeat myself."

"Mike," Harvey's voice is strained and nothing approximating the equanimity of before, "Remember our conversation earlier? This is not a time when I can give you a choice. There's no choosing now. I know that you don't like this, and I'm sorry, but this is how it's going to be."

"I said no!" the associate snaps in frustration. "Get this into your head: I will not bow down to your stupid schemes just to satisfy _your_ peace of mind. It's not happening."

"Mike, poppet," Donna says her piece, "Harvey is just trying to do what's best for you. For what it's worth, I think we would have a fan-fricking-tastic few days together."

"While I appreciate the concern, Donna," he says diplomatically, "I'm old enough to stay on my own. I have an apartment for a reason." Even if he hasn't stayed there in, oh, three weeks or so. "I'll be fine. Stop encouraging him."

Mike avoids using the words 'man,' 'grown-up,' and, 'adult,' to propel his argument because lately he's noticed they seem to plot against him, highlighting all the ways in which he's not the least bit reliable in his present state. And it always ends the same way: with Harvey even more converted to a lifetime of mollycoddling than ever, and Mike feeling powerless to the solace of his trusty thumb.

"I don't need any damn encouragement, alright?" Harvey irritably tells him. "I'm in charge here, and I have grounds to believe that you most certainly will not be 'fine.'"

"Why do _you_ get to dictate how or where I spend my time?" Mike puts forward, doing his best to withstand that side of him that wants to kick and shout and narrate all the reasons why _no_ - _one_ can tell him what to do.

"Because I'm Harvey, that's why," his boss concludes as if it's that simple.

Okay, time to switch it up.

"Please, Harvey?" Mike sniffs, widening his eyes minutely, tilting his head ever-so-slightly and rumpling tragic brows. Blinking past the tears catching on his eyelashes, he adds a layer of the sweetest sincerity to his tone. "I promise I'll be really, really good, and do everything I'm supposed to, and call Donna if anything happens." And just to seal the deal, he does the one thing guaranteed to thaw any last reservation - Mike pokes the edge of his mouth with the tip of his thumb, neither sucking or chewing, and adds, "Pretty please?"

So he's a manipulative little shit - sue him.

He can see Harvey's willpower draining away at the adorableness. It shouldn't work, - he's a long way from the picture of independence - but it does. If nothing else, Harvey is a sucker for a charming, distressed Mike.

With a look in his eyes like he knows he's going to regret this later, the senior partner gives in, "Fine. But if anything - and I mean, _anything_ \- goes wrong, then you will be shipped off to Donna's, no hesitation. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mike. Do not let me down."

But, of course, it wasn't that easy. Harvey spends the rest of the day trying to change his mind, because he can't very well go back on his word, and then panicking as the time draws nearer and he realises that Mike is genuinely going to be left on his own.

 _Two days_ , Mike keeps reminding him.

 _And another morning_ , Harvey predictably parrots back.

His flight (first-class, naturally) is scheduled to leave that Thursday morning, but Mike soon begins to doubt that he'll ever make it on board. A twist that nobody saw coming, Harvey is unbelievably _clingy_ that evening. Beyond ensuring that the refrigerator is well stocked, (there was no hope of the associate returning to his own 'landmine of fleas and disease') and drafting up list after list on what to do in case of an emergency, the lawyer's focal goal is not letting Mike out of his sight.

With his approaching departure skulking around the corner, Harvey consoles himself by carding fingers through his puppy's hair while he reads up on the case - and Mike lets him. Even if it does become a tad distracting when he's trying to build the Millennium Falcon out of Lego _without_ instructions, thank you very much. Instructions are for wusses.

Mike, on the other hand, isn't feeling at all apprehensive about his father-figure leaving. On the contrary, he's looking forward to the prospect of revelling in his freedom.

It isn't until bedtime that the first trace of fear sprouts. However, he can't really express these fears without aggravating all of Harvey's, so he keeps them to himself and inadvertently gets comforted anyway, when the man continues to stay with him, crooning song after song, and accidentally ends up falling asleep in Mike's bed.

Thursday dawns with the peachy afterglow of sunrise.

Mike unenthusiastically swallows his toast without complaint, while Harvey packs the last of his things.

"Don't worry, kiddo. I'll call as soon as I can," Harvey pledges, while the kid clutches at him for dear life. "Be good for me, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

"Miss you," he mumbles into the man's chest, one hand mangling his crisp, scrupulous suit. It is perhaps the first time that Mike truly pays attention to the drastic difference in height between them. He really is but a boy.

"I'll miss you too, puppy," Harvey murmurs, planting a kiss on his head and rubbing his back. Mike reluctantly lets go, standing back as his protector slides into the cab.

But it'll be good for them, he thinks. The separation.

 _Two days_ , Mike reminds himself.

And another morning.

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* * *

For his first step towards doing-whatever-the-hell-he-wants, Mike casually forgets to call Ray.

He waits long enough for Donna to have gotten to work so that he won't run into her outside the building, but doesn't leave it too late that the redhead will grow concerned and get in contact with Ray herself. He hops onto his bike and feels the last of his guilt shrink away. Man, he missed this.

Besides, it's not like he's doing anything that anyone other than Harvey would categorize as dangerous. He's being healthy and active, getting his blood pumping and all that. And really, Mike is not abusing Harvey's trust. He hasn't gone mad with power; he's just riding his bicycle.

Work itself is far from enjoyable. But that's precisely what he'd aimed for.

As soon as Mike arrives, he advances towards Louis' office and requests to chip in on the Peterson & Ridge merger. It's not the most intellectually-challenging of cases, but there's a mountain of paperwork that the junior partner is all too happy to impart on eager, naïve associates.

Like him.

And Harold - who he feels a little bad about roping in, but at the end of the day, he is far too docile to even suggest that Mike takes his lunch instead of burrowing under a cave of briefs in the file room, and so unobservant that it's highly unlikely he'd ever notice Mike then falling asleep after holding out for as long as he can.

Mike is cunning enough that he texts Donna to say everything's okay, while supplying the vaguest of details to hopefully knock her off his tail.

It's late by the time he finishes up - he may have yelled at Harold a little and decided never to work in close proximity on an empty stomach with anyone ever again - and Mike once again opts not to phone his boss' driver, preferring to make his own way home in the dark.

He's shivering violently as he turns his key in the lock with frozen, trembling hands, and it takes a moment for Mike to realise that the door was never locked.

Guardedly pushing it open, he breathes a sigh of relief at the welcoming brightness. What kind of dim-witted burglar leaves the hall lights on?

Tiptoeing towards the kitchen area all the same, he halts at the sight of a figure helping themselves to a glass of the finest wine on offer.

"Welcome home, Mike," Donna drawls, swirling the sparkling, crimson liquid and taking a leisured sip. "You took your time."

His messenger bag falls to the floor. "Goddammit."

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* * *

"Donna, what are you doing here?" Mike questions, shock quickly wearing off and annoyance rising in its place.

"You're moping," she states with a shrug, taking a seat by the breakfast bar. "I figured I'd better do something before you started writing shitty poems and sobbing into a tub of strawberry ice-cream."

"I am _not_ moping," he objects. He's just… going about his day a little differently, is all.

"You didn't step one foot into Harvey's office all day and have been going nuts trying to keep yourself busy," the redhead recounts dryly. "Pretty sure that counts as moping."

Unable to defend himself without digging a deeper hole, Mike instead probes, "Did he call you? Is that why you're here?"

"No, I volunteered to save you from becoming a walking cliché," Donna tells him, elegantly crossing her legs in total indifference.

"But he _did_ call."

"Duh." She rolls her eyes. "Classic worrywart, remember?" Donna chuckles, then abruptly sobers. "Though that's beside the point. Now that Harvey is out of the picture, we can finally have some fun around here."

Mike is almost afraid to ask. "…Fun?"

The beam which comes over her face is so scarily bright, it verges on foreboding. "Yes, _fun_. Ever heard of it?" Without giving him the chance to protest, Donna commands, "So go change into some old clothes, and shorts if you've got them, and brace yourself for a shitload of awesome."

When Mike only continues to stand there in hopeless incomprehension, she snipes, "Well? What are you waiting for? Chop, chop. I've got stuff to prepare."

He does as instructed, emerging almost ten minutes later in the rattiest clothes he owns.

When he enters the living area, Mike is stunned to learn that the couch has been pushed back against the far wall and an _enormous_ slice of paper has been rolled out in its place, roughly eight feet in length, and the corners are weighed down by generous trays of thick, glossy paint - modest yellow and luscious blue opposite a tart red and blushing pink.

Not only this, but the redhead herself is now dressed in a baby pink vest-top and black yoga pants, with her hair scraped back in a lopsided bun and looking far too smug for his liking.

"Uh, Donna…" He scratches his chest. "What's all this?"

"This, my sweet, ignorant friend, is everything we need for some good, old-fashioned freeze dancing."

"Some-some _what_?"

"No need to look so worried, sunshine," she declares, laughing openly at his wary expression. "It's easy peasy. Here, just take off your socks and follow my lead, 'kay?"

It takes a bit more coaxing for Mike to get in the swing of things, but Donna's zest is irresistible.

Which was why, an hour later after hastily retrieving and accepting a call from his buzzing cell, Mike answers with a breathless, almost giddy, "He-hello..?" while fighting to maintain his balance, feet skidding on the green-speckled wooden floor and leaving a trail of bright, sticky prints.

"Mike?" Harvey replies in confusion. "Why do you sound so out of breath? Is that _music_ playing in the background?"

"Bit busy, Harvey," the kid tells him, mind elsewhere. His heart is beating frantically while his legs are moving seemingly of their own accord to the infectious rhythm - riffs of frenzied, electric guitars and chaotic drums clashing with the offbeat keyboard and passionate yet silky vocals. "Donna challenged me to a dance off and I'm currently losing by- what was it?" he directs over his shoulder. "Ten points?"

"Fifteen if you're not careful," she supplies, wisps of auburn sticking to her forehead creased in concentration. "I am gonna. Bring. You. _Down_."

"You wish," Mike retorts, before returning his focus to the conversation at hand, "Sorry, Harv. Can you call back in, like, twenty minutes?"

"Wait-wait-wait," he butts in, "What's this about a dance off?"

"I'm teaching him how to play freeze dance," Donna shouts over, bouncing to the climatic build of the drums. "Try to keep up."

"What the hell is that?" the man asks, perplexed.

"It's a game where you pour some paint into a container and then jump into it," he explains. "Once your feet are covered, you start the music and dance around on a really large sheet of paper. The song stops at random and you have to freeze and hold your pose. First one to move loses. Winner scores five points."

"Is that.. Is that safe?" he wonders suspiciously. "Sounds kinda messy."

"It's kickass," Mike enthuses just as the music is brought to a standstill and he halts, wobbling a little as his toes strain under the weight of his awkward position. "Check it, I only fell over _twice_."

"Wait, what-"

Sneaking a peek at his companion, he sees that Donna is struggling to uphold her own difficult pose as she tips to one side, paint slick and slurring under her heel. "Plus, by the end, you've got a pretty cool picture. We've made three already."

"Mike, I don't want you getting hu-"

"We'll scrub the place down afterwards and everything, no worries."

"Mike, you'd better not do anything-"

A sharp gasp and suddenly Donna is pitching forward. Her hip knocks into Mike's side, disturbing his own brittle steadiness. Soon, he is crumpling unceremoniously on top of her in a heap of tangled limbs and startled laughs, flecks of paint spraying their faces as a lock of hair dips into the colourful mush.

"What was that?" Harvey cries in panic.

Before he can assure his boss that everything is fine, - he's doubtlessly bruised, but it doesn't seem like anything's broken - the redhead snatches the phone out of his grasp and replies smoothly into the receiver, "Sorry, no killjoys allowed. Feel free to call back whenever I actually give a crap. I'll pencil you in for Tuesday."

"Donna, I swear to God-"

"Bye, Harvey," Donna sings, not hesitating to hang up.

Mike stares at her.

Gazing back at him unrepentantly, she says, "What?"

Huffing a laugh, he shakes his head and remarks instead, "For the record, I so won that round."

"Oh, hell no, bitch," she counters. "You could have fractured my spine with that twisty manoeuvre there; I am entitled to at least ten pity points."

Sometimes with Donna, it really is easier to simply give her what she wants.

The clean up takes about twice as long as the game itself and Mike has a sneaking suspicion that he will be picking blobs of paint out of his toenails for weeks, but with what feels like a permanent grin having long ago conquered his face, it's hard to sustain any exasperation.

Ultimately, the boy can't deny that it was totally and unequivocally freakin' worth it.

Even if Harvey will never entrust Donna to oversee Mike's welfare ever again. And he had to endure a pretty impressive, anxiety-driven rant which clocked in at around twenty minutes when he finally worked up the courage to ring back the catastrophic-thinker who probably shouldn't be left alone to his thoughts.

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* * *

Harold doesn't want to work with him on Friday.

Not that Mike blames him.

He buys a cookie to say sorry and leaves it on the much-too-gentle associate's desk along with a written apology, before going to hide from Louis in the library and drawing a picture for - and possibly of - Harvey (he was bored).

The man eventually tracks him down and he ends up working in Louis' office for the rest of the day where he can keep tabs on him - damn Harvey called him too.

Mike doesn't think he'll ever recover from the horror of being bulldozed into taking a nap by the same man who was gunning for the obliteration of his career just a month ago and who now forced him to eat turkey bites, celery and carrot sticks for lunch after squabbling for over an hour about who was superior: Batman or Superman (Batman, obviously. Strategic mastermind, anyone?).

And as it turns out, there's not a whole bunch of people that Harvey _didn't_ call, because when he leaves the firm at six o'clock on the dot at the junior partner's insistence, Ray is leaning against his limo sporting a disapproving frown courtesy of one even more disapproving senior partner.

Mike hangs his head and gets in.

He only has enough to time to change out of his suit into something more comfortable before knocking sounds at the door. Grumbling on his way to answer it, the associate readies himself for an argument with a certain legal secretary, but to his surprise, it's not Donna standing at his front door with a mouth-watering bag of takeout.

"Hey, loser."

"Aw, _man_ ," Mike groans, throwing back his head and standing aside to let her in. "He recruit you too?"

"What?" Rachel asks, startled.

"Harvey," he says roughly. "He's been enlisting the help of everyone I know to make my life a living hell from the other side of the frickin' country. He made me stay with _Louis_ today."

"Yeah…about that..." She bites her lip, looking up at him guiltily. "He, ah, got in touch with me, too."

Of course he did.

"Well, I have to give him props for his thoroughness," Mike grumbles, collecting two plates and a couple forks from the kitchen. "He's like some kind of evil mastermind."

Rachel laughs. "You didn't honestly expect anything less?"

"I don't know," he answers candidly, before glancing over at her in confusion, "Why? Did you?"

"Can't say I did," the paralegal admits easily. "My Dad used to be the exact same and don't even get me started on my Mom. Even now, it's like I have to remind her the umbilical cord was cut decades ago."

Mike swallows at the insinuation that their situations are in any way similar.

Right. New caregiver, chemical reaction, whole distortion of reality thing.

Not wanting to get into it, he says teasingly, "Harvey the only reason you came over?"

"'Course not," Rachel grins. "We haven't hung out in ages and I thought you might want to have another Vikings marathon. Unless you're not up for it. It might be a little graphic."

"Seriously? Blood, guts and gore - hell, yeah, I'm all over that shit!"

"You sure?" she frowns. "People are, like, slaughtered every five minutes."

"Rach, come on." _Not this again_ , he inwardly sighs. "You can't dangle something like that in front of me just to yank it away. Get over yourself, we're watching it. I've been dying to watch season two."

She doesn't look convinced. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," he assures with soft earnestness, positive that he has this in the bag

"Alright then," Rachel allows. "But don't come crying to me if you have any nightmares." And for the first time, it crosses Mike's mind that she's acting a lot more like a babysitter than his friend - much less his equal. It upsets him a great deal more than it should.

Then when she murmurs, "It'll be our little secret," the penny drops and it becomes apparent that - just like everything else - Rachel may not purposely treat him this way, but for all intents and purposes, their friendship may as well be in shambles because all Mike's ever going to be to her is a dorky little kid that needs protection from the harsh realities of the world and R-rated movies.

He enjoys his time with the paralegal even so, but it's not the same.

Whenever they make a fresh batch of homemade popcorn beforehand like always, Rachel warns him to be careful not to burn his fingers and she constantly scrutinizes his expression for any signs of emotional disturbance during the show, which sadly does end up being more than he can handle.

After swapping for another Disney film, - Brother Bear or something - Mike's spirits are a little low and he finds himself wishing that Harvey were here to comment on the mediocre animation and far-fetched plot as if in agony, so that even though the kid side took pleasure in the childish show, he could laugh about the occasional flaw and that would be fine, too.

He'd feel more…balanced or something.

At the finish up, Mike is on the verge of tears, (not because the ending broke his heart or anything, as if) and involuntarily sniffles, "Want H'vey."

Though alarmed, Rachel is obviously cooing uncontrollably on the inside and she stokes his hair for a moment before pronouncing, "I think I might have just the thing."

She stands and soon disappears from his line of sight and just when he fears she's going to present him with Jellybean, or a sippy cup, or something equally embarrassing, Rachel returns with his neglected laptop.

"Here you go, pumpkin," she smiles, handing it over.

Brows puckering, Mike begins to say, "What-" but is cut off by a voice emanating from the contraption on his lap.

"Hiya, puppy. A little birdie told me you were feeling a little down."

"Harvey!" Mike beams, tilting the laptop so that the familiar face appears on the screen. In the meantime, Rachel leaves to give the two some privacy, quickly giving Mike a good-bye hug and nodding to Harvey.

"Yup," The other man's smile is warm and gentle. "What's up, puppy? Why so sad?"

Eyes downcast, Mike shrugs, toying with his fingers. "Just been…been missing you," he admits shyly with a faint blush.

"Well, then isn't it a good thing you'll see me tomorrow, right, bud?"

"But tomorrow's _forever_ away," the boy whines, breath hitching.

"I know, puppy," Harvey appeases. "But just think of all the time we'll have to do something together when I get back."

The conciliation alone isn't enough.

In the end, Harvey has no other alternative than to wait until Mike is 'as snug as a bug' (Harvey's words, not his) in bed, clutching his security blanket and stuffed animal close, before singing his usual lullaby over an honest-to-God Skype call so that the kid can finally sleep.

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* * *

The appointment he arranged with Dr. Slater for Monday morning can't come quick enough.

He doesn't bother with any preamble, simply choosing to barge in, thoughts of this future and his current routine - which evidently has a sell-by date - ricocheting in his mind, and demands, "How am I ever supposed to have a normal life?" It's the one question he'd give anything to have an answer to. "It feels like I have no control over anything and there's only so long that I can keep all of… _this_ up."

He doesn't have to elaborate on the 'this.'

Dr. Slater stands and gives the subject his full, undivided attention, pausing for several moments to carefully consider his response.

"Foremost," he begins, clearing his throat and licking his chapped lips, "My advice to you would be to embrace it." And wasn't that a stinker. "I won't lie. The other's still struggle and this is all very new. But the absolute last thing you should do is act like nothing has changed."

So… the exact opposite of everything he has been doing?

"Major adjustments are only logical," Dr. Slater explains. "You are not an adult, in body or mind. Hard as it to accept, you're less than eighty-percent teenager. Mike, you must cater to your body's needs."

"What? Like, you mean I should walk around casually sucking on a pacifier?" he scoffs with a healthy dose of sarcasm. But his hands are ticking and he's feeling extremely out of his comfort zone.

"Let me ask you this," the man challenges. "If you were diabetic, would you feel uncomfortable taking insulin?"

Mike rolls his eyes, having seen this very practical outlook coming a mile off. "Of course not."

"Then why should you think of this as being any different? There's no reason to be ashamed, Mr. Ross. If you need security items, use them - discreetly, if you must. Say for example, you find yourself craving a hug or getting carried away with make-believe, go with it. Repressing these desires will not help. We've tested that avenue and it has failed spectacularly. Best case scenario, you have a complete and utter meltdown come naptime. Worst case, you risk disturbing the somewhat delicate balance between the two, resulting in even more indulgence of puerility. You aren't normal, Mike," he says matter-of-factly, causing the associate to flinch. "You have to be realistic, which, yes, requires making a few life changes that are not altogether ideal."

" _Not ideal_?" Mike repeats incredulously. "Doc, you're talking about me giving up my independence, my job, my _everything_."

"Maybe, maybe not," he shrugs. "With the appropriate measures in place, I do believe that you can manage this. Go back to school, take up something new for a few years. Then you can qualify as a lawyer or whatever it is that you wish and-"

"Start all over again?" he interrupts cynically, a bitter taste on his tongue.

Dr. Slater pauses. "Would that really be so bad?"

 _Yes_ , a voice deep down screams. _It would be the end of everything_.

But then he remembers just how goddamn _happy_ he'd been to see Harvey on his return. The beam that shone much brighter than ever before. How the man had wrapped his arms around him and pulled Mike tight against his torso, running his fingers through his blonde hair and grinning.

How easy it had been for both of them to say, 'I missed you. Let's not do that again.'

"I never asked for a do-over."

"But still… you got one," he bluntly points out. "The only question is, what will you do with it?"

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_Thanks for reading._

_It isn't as long as I would have hoped for, (sort of like short snippets) but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless._

_Also, for the Anon who asked if Mike is a kid - no, he's technically a teenager with child-like tendencies. Sorry, if I've made this unclear._


	8. Change Your Life

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**CHAPTER SEVEN:**

Change Your Life

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**A/N:** Okay, guys - listen up. So I have about three more chapters planned, not including the epilogue or whatever, and after that, I'm afraid that could be it - I might wrap this up. Really, though, it's down to whether or not there's a demand for more. I love writing Suits fics (and absolutely adore Can't Go Back) and I will quite happily write more. But I also have school to consider, so it really does depend on whether there's any real need for it. I hope this doesn't sound presumptuous or anything, I don't know. I'm genuinely wondering if this is something worth investing a lot more time and energy in.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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_1\. Quit avoiding the problem. A.K.A stop being such a stupid-head (crossed out) wimp._

* * *

The mirror is not his friend.

For the past month, Mike has assiduously shirked away from any external markers of his journey backwards in time, fleeting glances here and there in the mirror felt like following a map that leads only to a dead end. Or a compass that points towards North and nowhere else.

Yet now, he stands in the brightly-lit bathroom studying his face and wonders what it is that Harvey sees - or more accurately, how he _can't_ see.

A boy stares back at him, no older than fourteen.

He seems unbelievably small, but is probably of an average height for his age, and his scrawny body only makes him look so much younger, all awkward elbows and lanky limbs. His hair is very, very blonde, shades lighter than he remembers, while his face is horribly cute. In spite of the distinct jaw-line and angular chin, there is enough leftover babyfat that he's the kind of boy that girls will crush hard on, but ultimately describe first and foremost as _'dreamy,'_ or, gag, _'adorable.'_ Miles away - years away - from ruggedly handsome or even hot.

But it's the eyes. The eyes are what hold his attention.

Strikingly blue, they are impossibly bright, and innocent in a way Mike's never been.

Uncomfortably aware of the arm hanging limply by his side, fingers gripping a soft, cuddly wolf like it's a life-line, he doesn't know whether to consider that a good thing.

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_2\. Be more positive._

* * *

It began with the best of intentions, as these things always do.

_What will you do with it?_

What does Mike want to _do_?

It's a tricky question, one he thinks long and hard on. After his confrontation with his reflection, Mike crafts a list - a plan of action, a means to an end.

He is practical, factual, this-is-what-it-is-esque. But Mike knows that unless he changes his prevalent, pessimistic outlook, he's never going to get anywhere. So he starts reading self-help books for as long as he can stomach it, and attaches merry, luminous sticky notes covered with inspirational quotes to his dresser.

_Everyday is a second chance._

_You'll never leave where you are until you decide where you'd rather be._

_Think positive and positive things will happen._

They all sound so cheesy and vapid, and it feels as if Mike's starring in his own, low-budget sit-com, plastering on a blinding smile and waiting for the laugh track.

Look on the bright side - that's elementary school stuff.

He sees his shrunken body and smooth, soft skin, and it's hard to quit focusing on all that he's lost and acknowledge everything he has gained in return.

Then comes his parent's anniversary.

Every other year, Mike would set aside three or four hours to visit his Grammy and play checkers while engaging in the obligatory, annual reminiscing of the good-old days, and then he'd go retreat to his apartment to get high in peace, vodka bottle in hand and eyes rolling in the back of his head, almost killing himself trying to escape the pain.

But for the first time in fourteen years, his Gram isn't well enough to participate in his self-destructive ritual, bed-ridden with a chest infection, and he's staying at Harvey's place rather than his own with no alcohol in sight (Harvey's stash of scotch having long ago been hidden).

Mike slogs through work in a haze, numb and stranded in his own personal hell. He slowly punches holes in a plain piece of paper for over half an hour, just watching the remains flutter away and listening to the deadening crunch. He grinds tacks into his desk, yellow, green and blue, and coldly staples sheets together. When his thumb gets trapped between the silver teeth, trickles of intelligent red, he can't tell if it was an accident.

His heart feels heavy. He feels so very old.

He doesn't realise he was due at the senior partner's office over forty-minutes ago, until a hand reaches out and snags his own, stilling his movements, and Harvey's blurred face appears in his vision.

Crouched in front of him with the distinctive slope of worry in his dark eyes, Harvey wraps a handkerchief around the open wound, which Mike unfeelingly observes has grown, and searches for words when none are in the offing. His steady gaze promises, _It's okay._ His tight mouth asks, _why?_

What had been two, small punctures are now long, raw cuts. There's dried blood in his fingernails and crimson smeared across his palm.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened.

Blood gurgles from the deepened slashes and Mike is suddenly stiffly ashamed of his behaviour.

He didn't mean to, he never means to.

Overwhelmed with a rush of _could's_ and _maybes_ and _if only I'd done's_ , he chokes, "I miss them, H'vey. I miss them and they're gone and it's today." He roughly swipes under his nose. "It's _today_ and I just miss them so much."

That's all it takes. That's all it takes for the Harvey to see the cuts for what they really are - a cry for help, an overflow, a punishment to fit the crime.

"Aw, Mike," Harvey whispers. "Come here."

He draws Mike into a hug right there in front of everyone, and it's only then that the associate becomes conscious of the fact that he's sobbing, shoulders shaking as he buries his face in Harvey's chest, while the other man pats his back and makes vague noises of comfort.

"Shh…it's okay, it's okay."

It's the farthest thing from okay.

Eventually, his boss calms him to the point where he can peel the kid away from him long enough to usher him towards his office, but once there, there's no hope of dislodging Mike from his side. He rests his head on the lawyer's shoulder and sucks on his other thumb, sniffing and whining every so often. Mumbling inarticulately, Mike plays with Jellybean's fur, who was handed to him around the same time Harvey bundled him up in his blankie that he'd been crying out for.

He's neither teen nor toddler.

He's not even really _Mike_ until about three hours later. Harvey's clutch on the book he's been reading has gone slack and his eyes have fallen shut, head dipping towards his chest.

It is then that Mike, half-dozing himself, finds the courage to murmur, "She was a painter. My mum. Not a very good one, maybe, but she didn't care. I remember how I'd come home and every day almost without fail, she'd have paint staining all of her clothing. When I asked her why she didn't wear an apron like we had to in school, she'd laugh and tell me getting so messy was her favourite part." He yawns, snuggling closer to Harvey. "I remember one time she painted the three of us together. It's the only picture we had where we were all smiling and it wasn't even a real one."

His voice fades, thinking, and moments later, he's dead to the world.

After barely making it through the rest of the day, all the while clinging to Harvey, Mike wants nothing more than to put the incident behind him. And it isn't until a week later that he's forced to think about it again.

Flinging open his bedroom door and chucking his messenger bag on the bed, Mike is yanking off his tie when he freezes in place.

There, quietly hung on the wall, is a painting. _The_ painting.

Soft smiles and crinkled eyes.

Mike can hardly believe it. Someway, somehow, Harvey tracked down one of his fondest memories and brought it to life. He listened when Mike was scared of talking, felt the weight of all of his word's importance.

All of a sudden, Mike remembers all the times Harvey has played with him, encouraged him to use the race-car tracks Donna bought him and didn't laugh when Mike had a little too much fun than is probably normal. He remembers how Harvey always makes his waffles just the way he likes them and never complains when Mike begs to watch the Lego movie for the thousandth time.

All of the smiles and hugs and hair ruffles - they all come flooding back.

He doesn't know how he ever took Harvey for granted, but he vows not to do it again. Suddenly, it's not so hard to feel fortunate.

It still doesn't feel quite like a blessing, but he knows it's not a curse.

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_3\. Update wardrobe. (Translation: buy clothes that actually fit.)_

* * *

Every time Mike sneaks out, it's for a perfectly good reason.

The first was an essential trip to see Dr. Slater, timed expertly during one of Harvey's meetings. The next equally fundamental.

He's been having an off morning. Not only have he and Harvey slept in, but his pants keep falling down and he has to create a new loop in his belt to hold them up, if only just. The hem has to be rolled up at the bottom as do the sleeves of his jacket. He looks ridiculous.

Like a child playing dress-up.

Mike's frustration only increases ten-fold when he struggles to knot his tie. Most days he can manage with only a little difficulty, but for now it looks like he'll have to bring in reinforcements.

"Harvey, my tie's being a dumb-ass," he exclaims upon bursting into his boss' bedroom.

Buttoning up his own vest, the lawyer sighs, "Let's have a look."

Squirming while Harvey deals with his twisty disaster, Mike doesn't notice at first the way the older man's head tilts, speculating, seizing him up.

Then their eyes meet and for a moment the associate thinks there might be a question hidden in their depths.

For a moment it looks like maybe Harvey's wondering why the kid is so much shorter than him, when did his clothes get so big, where his masculine frame went.

Mike holds his breath. He waits for it.

But then that moment is gone.

Something holds his tongue. And instead, Harvey shakes himself and says, "Good try, buddy. Don't worry, you'll get it next time." Then he playfully tousles his hair and pecks his forehead, before walking over to slip on his watch and jacket.

But Mike's had enough and, later that very day, he swoops in during her lunch break and hacks Donna's computer. With a single glance, he memorizes Harvey's upcoming schedule and cunningly devices his next breakout.

When Harvey leaves for court two days after, Mike casually strolls out of the building and into the mall about fifteen blocks down the street. He estimates that he has approximately two hours, which is not enough to get everything he needs, but it's a start. He purchases three suits from their formal wear, nothing too shabby, and then grudgingly heads to the adolescent section to scope for socks, converse, shirts, tees, hoodies, underwear, jeans… the list goes on and on. Afterwards, he catches a cab to the condo and unloads the goods in his room, making it back just in time to see Harvey waiting for the elevator.

He has to lie and say he'd just grabbed a bagel from the stand, which then results in a five minute baby-lecture on healthy eating habits, but hey, it'll be nice to have clothes that don't feel like they're trying to eat him.

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_4\. Clear out apartment._

* * *

Debatably one of the most crucial things on his agenda is Mike's wish to tie up some loose ends.

One of which being his apartment.

Whatever the future holds, that desolate dump is not going to feature in it. Of this, he's positive.

He gathers a hoard of cardboard boxes, black bags, yellow gloves, and cleaning detergents. In one commendable exertion, he dedicates an entire day just to his bathroom, scrubbing his shower, toilet and sink, taking care just to wipe the faucets - he even uses an old toothbrush to remove the grime in the trickiest of places.

Mike dusts the medicine cupboard and cleans the mirror, being incredibly thorough.

It's tough, especially once he has to start deciding what and what not to throw out, but he's sure it will be worth it.

It's therapeutic, almost.

Like with every stroke and swab and scrub, he's purging himself of the man he used to be.

Stripping away the dirt of his past and polishing the potential to be something more.

Something greater than ever before.

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_5\. Give in, not up._

* * *

His work rate does improve, but Mike finds he concentrates best with his fingers in his mouth.

His emotions aren't entirely out of control, but only because Mike lets them do whatever they please.

He's not perfect, but Mike's removed the rose-tinted glasses and is beginning to accept that he never really was and thus, never will be.

Mike regularly checks in with Dr. Slater, who keeps record of his 'progress' (he's not a damn science project, _he's not_ ) and advices him on many different things. It does help, to an extent. So, Mike's not surprised that on one particular day, the man calls on his way out the door, "Oh, and Mike? One more thing…"

Although not overly interested, he's willing to hear him out.

"What's up, Doc?" Mike grins, his much-loved phrase.

"Some of the…the others-" he doesn't have to clarify who, "-meet up once a month," he nervously divulges, scratching his neck. "They have a meeting this Friday. You should go."

"To… what? Meet people my own age?" he scornfully questions. "Uh, I think I'll pass."

"It would be good for you," Slater insists. "Just promise me you'll consider it, okay?"

"Sure," he says easily, "Whatever."

But he has no intentions of actually following through, until a few days later when Mike automatically reaches for his razor only to remember that he doesn't need one for another two or three years - he doesn't even patchy facial hair to look forward to anytime soon.

So he goes. To support group. He needs to know he's not the only one.

But when the time comes and he's stood surveying a room of teenagers, - pre-teens, even - cheerfully playing scrabble, Mike is quickly bombarded by second thoughts.

"What a bunch of losers," he mutters, turning to go.

"I know, right?" a voice chimes from beside him, making Mike jump back in alarm. "I mean, Scrabble? Really? Least they could do is whip out some good-old Operation. Or Cluedo..." he reconsiders, "I'd make a great murderer."

"Sorry, dude," he apologises on instinct, trying to catch his breath. "Didn't see you there."

"No problem," the boy grins, "You're Mike Ross, right? I'm Pierce. Slater said you might show."

Mike rolls his eyes. "He also said it wouldn't suck."

"You don't know the half of it, man," Pierce laughs. "These guys are hardcore."

"Hard-core milk and cookie consumers?"

"Something like that," he answers. "Though, to be fair, you kinda caught 'em on a bad day. They're not always this…" he searches for the least offensive word, "..tame."

"But still bad, right?" Mike guesses.

Pierce smirks, "We're all a little bad, I think."

Mike doesn't know what it is, but there's something about this guy that makes it hard not to like him.

"So why'd you come?"

He shrugs, "Mom makes me. Something about 'fitting in' and 'making friends.' Personally, I think it's bullshit."

That's…interesting. Mike quirks a probing brow and asks without thinking, "Mom?"

"Eh, sister/mom - what's the difference?" Pierce comments, seeming amused by the line of questioning. "No-one here really cares about that kinda stuff anymore. You got girlfriends turned mother-hens and brothers that are now uncles. Then there's just your regular old mother to, well, mother, dad-to-dad - that kinda thing. Family dynamics shift," he shrugs, "Not much you can do. Some people have one parent, some have two. We're all used to it by now."

Impressed despite himself, Mike admires his blasé, what-can-you-do attitude.

"You don't feel kind of weird about it?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Nah," he waves off, "Not anymore. I mean, at first you don't really want to label it, 'cause it's a little too much to begin with. Beginning's always rough. But then, for appearance's sake, you go along with it, and after a while, it's just natural, I guess."

"You don't mind?" By this stage, Mike is positively bewildered.

"Like I said, I'm past that now. But you…" Pierce flicks a glance over him, considering, "You seem pretty stuck on it, yeah?"

"It's.. it's complicated," Mike confides, stuffing his hands into his pockets. And for the first time since this whole ordeal started, he finally admits, "He was my boss… now I can't tell who he is."

Pierce whistles.

"Boss?" he grimaces, rocking back on his heels, "Ouch. That's a combo we ain't seen before.

"Yeah, I didn't imagine it was all that traditional. Even here."

"It's not the worst I've heard of, though," Pierce tells him. "There's this one chick, and trust me, I thank God every damn day this didn't happen to me, that had to go into _foster care_ because all of her living relatives had passed away. Last I heard, she was getting on okay, found a nice home and all that, but still. To have to go through all that alone…" He shudders. "I can't even imagine."

Turns out, support group isn't such a waste of time, after all.

Pierce seems like a pretty cool guy, and they exchange numbers with vague commitments to 'hang out.' Mike strikes up a several more conversations with a couple others and leaves feeling more hopeful than he ever would've thought.

It's then that he gets an idea. And it's then that Mike's inner battle starts to slowly dissolve.

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_6\. No more excuses._

* * *

Mike's feeling pretty pleased with himself by the time he arrives home.

After spending the past two hours scrubbing down his greasy oven and revolting refrigerator (which was encrusted with black mould and reeked of spoilt milk) and throwing out all of the junk in his cabinets, he wants nothing more than to collapse on the couch and watch any trashy TV that requires no functioning brain cells. The kitchen is more or less perfect, the majority of his belongings having been boxed away, and all that's left to do is sweep, then mop the floor. After that, it's just a matter of tackling his old bedroom and then his apartment will be fit for the next loser to move in.

Maybe it's his sluggish mind, but Mike doesn't recognise that anything is out of the ordinary until he hears, "Where've you been?"

Mike stills, turning slowly to face Harvey who is standing with his arms crossed and looking positively fuming.

The kid's stomach drops, cursing himself inwardly. He was supposed to be working late.

Still hoping to salvage his innocence, Mike shrugs, "Visiting Grammy."

"Oh?" Harvey cocks a inquisitive brow. "That's where you said you where last time. Tuesday, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, so?" He's closing down, getting defensive. He knows it won't help his case.

"Well, see, that's funny," the older man replies with abnormal airiness. "Because I called your grandmother and she said she hasn't seen or heard from you since our last visit."

Oh, man. He is so screwed. "I don't know what to tell you, Harvey."

Dropping all pretences, Harvey scornfully suggests, "How about the truth?"

He knew all of the ducking out during work hours and narrowly avoiding his boss, while pitching flimsy excuses every time he gets caught would come back and bite him in the ass someday, but Mike just didn't figure it would be this soon.

"Gee," he begins, slowly backing away. "I'd love to stop and chat. But I've kinda got stuff to do. You know the stuff? So many stuffs."

"Nice try, kiddo, but you're not getting out of this one," the lawyer persists. "I want a straight answer. Where were you?"

Tell the truth or lie? It's his decision.

He blurts, "Our underground headquarters in Brooklyn."

The senior partner gazes at him in total bewilderment. "What?"

"I'm an undercover agent working for the British intelligence and I've been sneaking out to report back to my supervisor." Pressing a finger to his lips with exaggerated shifty eyes, he dramatically confides, "Louis is secretly a hardcore drug dealer."

Exhaling in exasperation, Harvey has to compose himself before biting, "Michael, I'm not fooling around."

To his knowledge, Harvey has ever been so pissed that he's used Mike's full-name before, but there's a first for everything.

"No, I kid," he half-chuckles, though inside his heart is hammering. "Actually, I'm a rogue robot who needs to be reprogrammed every forty-eight hours precisely or else I'll go insane and self-destruct."

The older man's jaw tics. "You are _really_ pushing your luck-"

"Okay, I'll give you that one. It's a bit far-fetched," Mike blathers, "The truth is, I lead a double life, wherein I'm really a part-time superhero who is jaded after the loss of my best friend, the only one I couldn't save-"

"For your information," Harvey butts in irately, "When I asked you what you've been up to, that wasn't a free pass to Stupidville."

Without missing a beat, Mike announces, "Stupidville is my alter-ego."

Taking a deep, calming breath, his boss squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering, "You are the most difficult, irritating, infuriating _moron_ I have ever met."

Mike really can't help himself. "Well, you know what they say - takes one to know one."

"Michael," Harvey is very clearly losing his patience, "I am only going to ask this one more time." Pushing a hand through his hair, he repeats, "Where have you been going?"

But Mike can be just as stubborn. "I'm going to my room in a moment."

"It's a simple question," he persists.

"It's none of your business."

"Too bad," Harvey angrily counters. "I'm not dropping this. You might as well be honest with me."

He wouldn't even know where to start.

"You have got to stop treating me with the kid gloves, Harvey," the associate gripes. "I'm not up to anything immoral or perilous or reckless. You just have to trust me. I am asking you to trust me. Is that so hard?"

"At this moment in time, don't hold your breath," the senior partner harshly relates. "You've been lying to me for weeks. How the hell can you expect me to be cool about this?"

"I don't," Mike responds bluntly. "I'm half-waiting for you to strap on a collar and leash and lug me around all of eternity."

"Watch it, rookie," Harvey growls. Another name he hasn't heard in a while. "You are out of line."

Raising mocking brows, the youngster questions cockily, " _Or what?"_

"Or nothing," his boss tells him. "Because you're grounded. Starting now."

" _What?"_ Mike reels back. "You can't do that!"

"I can and I am. That's a week's worth of sitting in my office with me, taking lunch with me, and oh, going to all of my meeting's with - you guessed it - _me_. Believe it or not, kiddo, I don't want to be spend my day worrying that you're out doing God knows what. So if this is what it takes to ensure you don't get into any trouble, then I guess you leave me no choice."

"No way! That is so unfair!"

"I don't give a rat's ass what's fair," Harvey declares. "It's happening. Deal with it."

And that was it. All of Mike's protests fall on deaf ears.

Strangely though, it's almost like only his teen self is being punished. Anything the kid in him wants, he gets. Toys, Jellybean, blankie, night-time lullabies - they are all acceptable in Harvey's books. Cell phone, video games, TV and movies, on the other hand, are entirely forbidden. Mike doesn't know if this is a conscious decision on Harvey's part or not, but he doubts that the man is aware what he's doing. He sees no reason why he would be.

What Harvey fails to account for, unfortunately, is the neediness which swiftly engulfs the youngster.

Mike is soon dominated by his toddler counterpart, and surprises himself by enjoying all of the time he gets to spend with Harvey. The downside of course being that Harvey has other obligations and cannot fritter away all of his time entertaining the restless boy. The youngster asks question after question, _why_ after endless _why's_ , and starts acting out when he doesn't get said attention.

Mike throws pens at Harvey's head.

He refuses to nap, rips up his briefs, stomps on every juice-box, and breaks his favourite toy car in half out of pure spite. Then cries like it's somehow Harvey's fault.

Harvey is at his wit's end.

Eventually, exhausted and feeling close to tears himself, he has no other option than to decree, "That's it. I think we should have a little Quiet-time."

"No!" Mike unsurprisingly protests. "I don't wanna!"

"Come on, puppy. No more arguing." Harvey pulls him up, grabbing a cushion and leading him to the corner. "Alright, now sit down, take a deep breath and stay here until you've cooled off a bit, okay?" he says gently but firmly. "I know you must be feeling frustrated that I'm too busy to play with you right now, but that doesn't excuse your behaviour."

"No!" he scowls, sitting down but kicking one of his legs in anger.

"Mike. That's enough," the older man warns, with a steady, unrelenting gaze. "It's time for you to be quiet until you feel a little better, got that? Just 'til you settle down."

The boy kicks once more. "No!"

"I'm not going to talk to you until you've calmed down," Harvey explains, simply returning to his desk and leaving Mike to his whining. It takes a further twenty minutes of tears, airborne pens, and a lot of grumbling, but eventually Mike's cries taper off. When all that remains are hoarse, self-pitying whimpers, Harvey finally stops ignoring him and crouches down in front of the now sleepy kid.

"Okay, are you ready to stop throwing things at me?"

Nodding shyly and hiccupping, Mike chews on his thumbnail.

"Good. You wanna fill me in on what that was all about?"

He stares at the senior partner's shoes and half-shrugs.

"Come on, puppy," Harvey murmurs, rubbing the boy's shoulder comfortingly. "What's got you so upset?"

"Just-just miss you," he mumbles, bashfully peeking up from under his lashes.

"Miss me?" the lawyer echoes, frowning faintly. "But I'm right here."

"You'we-you're working."

Scrubbing his forehead with one hand, Harvey sighs. "Well, yeah, I have meetings and responsibilities and lot's and lot's to do, but I'd never let that get in the way of spending time with you, you know that."

"Just miss you," Mike repeats, bottom lip trembling.

Harvey pulls him into a hug, tucking his head under his chin and saying simply, "I know, puppy. I always miss you too."

Regardless of their heart-to-heart, during the next four days, Harvey instigates a lot of Quiet-times. He is predictable, always consistent in his enforcement, but so is Mike, and it isn't long before Harvey discovers a pattern. Which is why, on the Saturday morning in a hopeful bid to make a dent in his sizable paperwork, his father-figure concocts a cunning plan.

He mixes together plain flour and salt, then boils hot water and adds in both vegetable oil and blue food colouring, before combining the wet and dry ingredients and slowly stirring. Once thoroughly blended, Harvey allows this to cool, then kneads the sticky clump, sprinkling an extra dash of flour, so that he's left with his own, homemade play-dough.

Then all he has to do is gather some blunt utensils, cups and bowls, step back and let the intriguing new substance work its magic.

Well… for all of five minutes.

At first, Mike excitedly pushes and prods the squishy slab, rolling it out with his fingers and flattening it with his palms. But that loses its appeal pretty quickly, and Mike is forced to stretch his imagination, gradually becoming more and more inventive.

Before long, the youngster calls, "Look! Look, H'vey! I made a starfish!"

"That's great, puppy," he remarks with a patient smile, glancing over briefly. "I see it."

After a few minutes, Mike begins cramming squashy handfuls into a plastic cup and then hacks at it with a fork, beating and slicing and poking, bright blobs of blue sparking everywhere. Harvey stops reading to watch the frantic movements, eyes crinkling in amusement. Finally, he asks, "Uh... whatcha doing, kiddo?"

"I'm making ice-cream!" he announces proudly.

Harvey's lip quirks. "Really?"

"Uh-huh!" He nods eagerly. "It's blueberry."

He represses an eye roll. How original.

"Sounds fantastic, puppy."

Thrusting the cold lump under the lawyer's nose, Mike demands, "Smell!"

Playing along, Harvey screws up his face and exclaims, "Ugh, that's disgusting!"

Mike's big blue eyes shine with pleasure. Giggling madly, he gives the crumbling play-dough another stir, before placing a hand over the top and shaking the container. "How about now?"

Harvey leans forward and pretends to cautiously sniff. "Mm, much better," he hums, warmth rising in his chest as Mike's face breaks into a delighted beam.

When the 'ice-cream' is served up in a plastic dish shortly after, Harvey picks up a spoon and fake slurps the gloopy mixture up, grinning at Mike's ensuing, jubilant laughter.

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

It's Thursday afternoon and Harvey has just left for the day to take Mike to his dentist's appointment.

Donna is collecting some forgotten files from his desk that she intends to drop off at his place later when she pauses, spotting a torn piece of paper half-hidden under the couch.

Bending down, she scrapes it off the floor and squints at what is undeniably Mike's scrawl.

Scanning the page, her eyes are naturally pulled towards the heavily underlined note at the bottom.

She frowns.

_7\. Tell Harvey._

Slipping the sheet into her binder, Donna casts a look towards her boss' empty chair and bites her lip, sensing that she has stumbled upon something big as she tentatively muses, "Tell Harvey what?"

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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_Thanks for reading._

_Not my best work, but oh well. Hope you enjoyed._

_This would have been longer had I not been admittedly distracted with my new story Waking Up. Sorry about that._


	9. Through Your Eyes

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**CHAPTER EIGHT:**

Through Your Eyes

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**A/N:** I am so sorry for dropping this for weeks on end with no explanation. My muse has been over place, seriously. I don't even know what's happening anymore. God, I hope this is okay - I've been stretching myself a little thin lately and I'm a bit worried that that's reflected in my writing. I had _a lot_ of difficulty getting this chapter finished and getting back into that headspace, so I'm hoping this isn't too horrible.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

It's cruel, but Mike knows it needs to be done.

He has to slit and slash and hack at Harvey's unwitting compliance and unconditional (ugh, he can't believe he's even thinking this) love if he ever wishes to apprehend the truth.

He's been careful not to quiz the man too much on his motivations before now, hating that flicker of uncertainty that crosses Harvey's face before he buries it, but Mike has to uproot all of the unanswered questions he seems so determined to ignore.

Mike needs to come clean, but to do that, he needs to make Harvey _see._

It's like they always say: he has to be cruel to be kind. He has to press until it hurts.

But Christ, if it's not going to really, really hurt.

* * *

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**-o-0-o- Donna -o-0-o-**

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* * *

After finishing up at the office, Donna drops by Harvey's place to see how the dreaded dentist appointment went. Heavy in her pocket is the mysterious note she uncovered and it's niggling in the back of her mind, that scattered, frustrated feeling you get when you can't quite remember that thing you know you tried not to forget.

She can scarcely stomach it.

Donna is the one who knows everything about everyone. She knows secrets that don't even know they are secrets.

It's like there is a blind spot in her vision that she can't expose and that's intolerable. She can only hope that someway, somehow her visit will shed some light on the matter.

When Donna arrives, (letting herself in with the spare key) the two are snuggled up on the couch watching the second Captain America film with Mike appearing agitated and unhappy, a crotchety pout that probably should seem out of place, on second thought, looking strangely at home on his babyish face.

"Take it, it didn't go well?" she questions by way of greeting and Harvey, obviously unsurprised to see her, bleakly shakes his head.

"Nope. Mike had a pretty rough day, didn't you, puppy?" he says sympathetically, petting his soft hair, only for Mike to jerk away and scoot down lower on the couch, chewing on the tip of his thumb. He sighs. "He had to take some painkillers for a little dental work and they've been messing with his poor tummy ever since."

She nods. Well, that explains the grouchiness.

"So we've been having a Marvel Movie day," Harvey declares with too much enthusiasm, clearly hoping that a more lively mood will brighten the atmosphere and maybe even become infectious. "So far Mike has remained…decidedly unimpressed."

"That so?" Donna smirks.

"Oh, yeah. It's been…" His grin tightens. "Enlightening."

"H-h'vey," Mike whines, butting Harvey's shoulder as he wriggles around uncomfortably and clutches at his stomach. "Feel 'ucky."

"I know you do, puppy," Harvey says indulgently, before transferring the kid onto his lap and shaking loose his tight grip. "But the dentist said that the numbing agent will wear off in a few hours, so you've just gotta hang in there until then. Can you do that? For me? It's just for a little while, I swear. I know it's not very nice." He replaces the pup's hands with his own, gently massaging the boy's queasy tummy to relieve the tense muscles in a skilled manner that indicates this isn't his first rodeo.

With his thumb bearing the brunt of his problems as he bites it, Mike stiffly leans back against his father-figure's shoulder and sniffles, making Donna's heart twist. The poor kid looks awful.

Over time, he slowly unwinds, the taut lines of his body softening under Harvey's calming touch until he's practically boneless, thumb dangling from his jaw which has finally gone slack.

"Feeling any better, puppy?"

Turning and snuggling into the man's chest, Mike gives a lethargic nod. "Stay with me?" he asks drowsily, fatigued after skipping his daily nap.

Harvey hugs him closer and smiles, bopping his nose. "Like I'd go anywhere else."

"Dun' want you to go," Mike snivels.

"I won't," he reassures.

Affectionately squeezing the back of the boy's neck and grazing the ends of his blonde hair with his thumb, he then changes the subject with a softly spoken, "You were really brave today, puppy. I'm so proud of you."

"No like the Dentist."

"I don't think anybody likes the Dentist, kiddo," the senior partner chuckles. "Now how about you try to go to sleep for a bit, hmm?" Before Mike has the chance to complain, Harvey adds, "Here, I'll even close my eyes too, if you want. How's about that? Nobody's leaving you, puppy."

Knuckling his eyes and smothering a yawn, Mike grumbles, "Not tiwed…"

"Just humour me, alright?" he requests. "We'll both have a lovely little nap together. It'll be great. Pinky promise, I won't snore. You won't hear a peep from me, if that's what you're worried about." The self-deprecating remark bags him a slow half-smile and Harvey brushes a doting kiss across the boy's crown before murmuring, "C'mon, it's beddy-bye for my little puppy."

Mike burrows closer but stubbornly shakes his head.

Sighing, Harvey momentarily glances up from his sleepy bundle, eyes landing pleadingly on the redhead as he asks, "Donna, you wouldn't mind fetching Jellybean and Mike's blankie, would you? I'd do it myself, but, well…"

He gestures helplessly to the youngster currently sprawled on his lap and tiredly fondling his shirt, lids sinking to half-mast as he fights to stay awake. It's a hopeless battle, though, even she can tell, what with Harvey deliberately weaving lazy fingers through his hair while keeping up his soothing rubbing.

Donna smiles warmly at the two of them. "No problem, Harvey. Still stows them under the bookshelf?"

He smirks back at her. "You bet. Because obviously there's no better place to conceal your fluffiest belongings than that dust-harvesting hidey-hole," he confirms, voice hushed but no less amused.

In the ever-present struggle to delay bedtime, Mike has rustled up many different techniques of varying success with the intention of staying up later - all of which Harvey felt compelled to share with Donna in fluctuating spells of exhaustion, frustration, and - most of all - overindulgent amusement.

The boy will 'suddenly' remember that he needs to pee (again), pushing down on his crotch and dancing on the spot after having unleashed the largest of puppy-dog eyes and declaring that he was all but dying of thirst only minutes earlier. He will feel heartbreakingly _torn_ between two pairs of his favourite pyjamas, debating for hours if you'd let him, and the betrayal of choosing his Cars toothbrush over his green Froggy one will cut deep; it's only ever fair that he uses both of them - but hey, at least his teeth will be extra clean.

Mike will develop the sudden urge to ask the weirdest questions imaginable such as, "H'vey, do you think fish get thirsty?" or, "Do hummingbirds hum because they don't know the words?" or, "How come glue doesn't stick to the bottle?" and, "What shape is the sky?"

Not forgetting Donna's personal favourite, "H'vey, why don't they call moustaches 'mouth brows?' I feel like we're missing out."

He's a little devil, conjuring up the most adorable, devoted smiles in existence to make it impossible for Harvey to walk away.

But Mike's oldest - and least effective - tactic of stalling sleepy-land consists of pretending to have 'misplaced' his night-time essentials (in other words, Jellybean and Blankie) because _he_ knows that _Harvey_ knows that he can't sleep without them. It has a tendency to backfire on the devious little monster, though. Mostly because he phenomenally sucks at hiding stuff and Harvey is an expert at finding them within minutes of their disappearance, usually speckled with dust and dirt and with only the threat of Mike's tears to protect them from being thrown in the wash again.

It makes Donna wonder how Harvey became so domesticated (apparently overnight) and why nobody seemed to notice when he did.

"He looks unfairly sweet like that," she voices upon her return as Harvey pauses carding his fingers through the youngster's hair to make the most of the new items his secretary passes over, swaddling both Mike and his cuddly wolf in his beloved blanket, before beginning to rock. "Nobody should get to look so unbelievably cute. He's like a little thumb-sucking angel."

Harvey shrugs.

"Yeah, I guess," he says gruffly, clearing his throat and shifting. But it's a little too late for the impervious, manly act and the look she shoots him says as much. "Okay, you got me. He's unbearably innocent," Harvey attaches, rolling his eyes at her take-no-prisoners expression. "My heart can't take the sweetness."

 _Ain't that the truth_ , she thinks, watching as he lies back and shuts his eyes, lip unconsciously raising at one corner, totally content with the human contact - with _initiating_ loving, human contact.

Donna considers him.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He is explicitly happy, explicitly affectionate, and it is more than what she could have ever hoped for him. It almost doesn't seem possible. She wants to know how it is.

Harvey's cracks an eye open noncommittally. Entirely relaxed, he resumes caressing his pup's hair as he permits, "Sure. Fire away."

"Do you ever get the feeling like… maybe Mike's keeping something from you?" she speculates, worrying her lip. "Like you're not getting the full picture?"

Immediately stiffening, Harvey glances over at her sharply and scowls. "Donna, why are you asking me this?" her boss demands in perplexity. "Did Mike say something to you? Do you know something I don't?" She notes, absently, how his arms tighten around Mike protectively - No, not just protectively, Donna corrects herself. But as if he's _scared_ someone's going to take the kid away.

"Just answer the damn question, Harvey," she snaps, "Don't you ever feel like something isn't right here? Doesn't it nag at you that you can't quite get a handle on what's going on?"

"Yes," he finally bursts, jaw compressing. "All the damn time. But I just have to trust-" he cuts off, taking a deep breath and patting Mike's back as to not disrupt his naptime, "I am _trying_ to trust that Mike will come to me when he's ready. I haven't forgotten our conversation that night he ran off, Donna. I'm not an idiot. I may not have all of the details, but I do know that whatever's happening, whatever it is that _has_ happened…" Harvey steals a look at Mike and sighs. "It doesn't feel wrong, either."

* * *

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**-o-0-o- Louis -o-0-o-**

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Over the past few months Louis has walked in on many strange interactions between Harvey and Mike, and they typically left him feeling confused, even excluded, to some extent, but always, always amused.

So it is with an anticipatory smirk that the junior partner hangs back instead of bypassing the pair on one Monday afternoon, right before the big meeting with all of the partners.

"Fine." He chuckles as Ross prepares to present some balderdash argument that Louis knows for a fact Harvey will never go for. The man is projecting that entrenched air of I'm-the-responsible-adult-here-and-you-are-going-to-listen-to-what-I-say that he's perfected over the last several months; there simply is no changing his mind. But Louis can't wait to see Mike try. Again. "How about this - I will selflessly retreat to the Library for a little bit to see what the, uh.. Library is.. up to, leaving you, fine sir, free to conduct your meeting in peace."

"Hmm, how can I put this without quelling your dreams and crushing your soul?" Harvey thoughtfully ponders, before rolling his eyes and deadpanning, "No."

The boy noisily exhales, scrunching his brows with a tense upper lip that gives the impression he's trying extremely hard not to stamp his foot. Louis has seen him do that before and it never works out in his favour. Harvey doesn't negotiate with 'naughty little boys who throw tantrums.'

Gosh, he wishes he had popcorn.

"Well.." Mike fumbles for a moment. "What if I went to bug Donna for a while? Would that tickle your fancy?"

"One, that's weird. Don't ever say that," Harvey says with a purposely judgemental shudder, "And two, the deal was you stayed with me, no matter how mundane the meeting. Punishments aren't supposed to be fun, remember?"

Oh, the punishments. Those were another matter altogether.

Louis still remembers the day he strode past Harvey's office only to witness the senior partner plonk his associate down on one of the cushions from his couch after getting hit in the face by a wayward highlighter. He hunkered down beside him and explained in astonishing detail exactly why the kid must bite the bullet and endure his time-out - sorry, no, _quiet-time_ \- because his behaviour has been so rotten. This partnered with the tearful apology and lingering make-up hug which followed soon after was enough to make the man fidget uncomfortably, because it did feel like he was intruding on such a private moment. And what's more, it was… remarkably touching.

"But Harv _veee_ -" Mike's voice, he's noticed, has a propensity to elevate several whole octaves higher when he doesn't get what he wants. "-If I stay here, I'll just get super bored and start yanking out my hair, one doomed strand at a time."

He's also incurably dramatic.

"You were perfectly behaved for Mr. Donavon yesterday," Harvey points out.

"Mr. Donavon gave me chocolate," the boy defends.

"He gave you a sugar high," Harvey counters, not sounding at all thrilled about it. That was the other thing. He is impressively attuned to the needs of his 'pup' and has become greatly concerned with 'What Is Best For Him.' In Louis' opinion, it is a conscientiousness that has definitely crossed well within the threshold of annoying (God, you let Mike play one mildly violent video game _one time_ and suddenly you're worthy of the death glare for weeks).

"And yet," the senior partner firmly continues. "You still found the strength within yourself to sit still for an hour. That had all the major ingredients for a nuclear meltdown, but we managed to escape unscathed." He pats him on the shoulder. "I think you'll survive this one."

"Maybe I was just trying to lure you into a false sense of security."

"Uh-huh." Harvey tips his head back and smirks. "How'd that work out for you?"

"Strictly speaking, it worked out seriously well," Ross claims, attitude both pleased and boastful. "I hit the jackpot on old men with a crazily sweet tooth. You wouldn't believe how much candy that crafty bugger slipped me on the down-low. You _never_ let me eat that much sugar."

Eyes gleaming with amusement, Harvey shakes his head at him, tsking, and proposes, "Did it ever occur to you that I just turned a blind-eye because he is an esteemed, much-loved client and I couldn't exactly tell him to stop supplying my so-associate with nicely wrapped balls of diabetes?"

Pursing his lips, Mike deliberates this and grimaces. "Touché…"

"You're not blowing this off, kiddo," he affirms, "You're going to sit quietly and take notes, and under no circumstances will you start sketching amateur caricatures of partners."

"Hey!" Mike protests, offended. "They're works of art."

"They're terrific," Harvey assures, now rubbing his shoulder in comfort. "If a little…" He hesitates. "Unflattering?"

It is… odd, really. To see Harvey act like this, all encouraging and whatnot. But Louis has had time to adjust; the senior partner is so damn _good_ at this parenting stuff that you have no real option but to respect him for it.

"Okay, alright. Then, uh…" Mike looks stumped, floundering for inspiration. "What if I hum to myself instead?"

"That's… the opposite of silent." And helpful, he doesn't add. But it's there.

"I could pace?" he throws out there. "Burns more calories than sitting doing nothing."

"Not if you don't want to look like you're dying for the toilet," the older man shoots down, unapologetically blunt.

"Then I'll use the time to hone the lyrics of my new hit song. I've already come up with the perfect title. It's called, 'Harvey, Have Mercy And Shoot Me Now.' It's catchy. I think you'll like it."

Snorting quietly, Harvey says dryly, "I'll be sure to add it to my play list."

"Or maybe I'll finally get around to fulfilling my bucket list instead. How's that?" Ross replies with more than a hint of cockiness, brows angled upwards in challenge. "Starting with number one: skip that boring meeting with Harvey and do something better with your life."

Mashing his lips together to restrain from laughing, the senior partner scrubs his forehead, unable to withhold that fond _what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you_ look as he compromises, "Look, if you're good, I promise I won't drag you along next time, but for now you just have to suck it up. It's not the end of the world."

"It may as well be," Mike mutters resentfully.

"Please…no more moaning, okay?" he appeals, taking out his cell and presumably texting Donna about their puppy's antics. They do that sometimes. "None of your 'suggestions' have endeared me any to the idea of leaving you with somebody else."

Mouth down-turned, the kid wordlessly mimics, "Aw, shucks."

"And no stupid, 1940's accents," Harvey instructs without looking up, always one step ahead. Always. "Don't think I don't know what you're planning."

Louis sniggers as Ross crosses his arms and pouts.

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**-o-0-o- Jessica -o-0-o-**

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* * *

Jessica recognizes the uniform question on everyone's face the second Harvey enters the conference room with Mike on his heels and gestures for him to sit.

The partners trade looks of confusion at the blonde-haired, baby-faced kid that trails in behind their best closer, wondering what he could possibly be doing here.

"Jessica, I didn't know we were signing on interns from the local high-school again," Gladwith eventually speaks up. "Is that programme still running? I thought it was discontinued a year ago."

"Oh, no," Harvey goes to amend. "Uh, he's not an intern. This is my a-"

"Son," Jessica smoothly assists, resting a hand on his shoulder and smiling serenely. "This is Harvey's son."

Harvey stiffens beneath her touch, only an infinitesimal tic of his jaw betraying his shock before he recovers, understanding that it would be his head on a stick if he were to contradict the managing partner. Mike, on the other hand, is visibly thunderstruck, eyes blew wide open and appearing moments from bolting.

She sends him a single ' _trust me'_ look and tilts her head ever-so-slightly towards the still clueless Harvey.

He starts breathing again.

"Well, I didn't know we had bring your kid to work days, either, or I'd have saved a great deal of money on the babysitter," Gladwith good-naturedly grunts, igniting a round of laughter, while Harvey assertively takes a seat, forcing a twinkling, magnetic grin.

He doesn't know it now, but that move just covered their asses.

"Mike is exceptionally bright," the managing partner explains. "He's very useful to have around. Harvey's been teaching him a few bits and pieces. He has a lot of untapped potential."

"Ah, I see. Got one of those boy-geniuses on your hands, eh, Harvey?" Mr. Miller nudges. "Taking after the old man."

"Brilliant as I am, my ego's not so deluded as to claim genius, Charles," he remarks, raising a brow.

"But he'd make an excellent lawyer," the other man deduces. "Especially with you gearing him up for stardom."

"Hey, I didn't say I hadn't any bragging rights," Harvey answers with a bold smirk. "I simply pointed out they don't apply to me."

The conversation dissolves into idle chitchat that Jessica will disperse soon enough, but for now, she's content to take a back seat while Harvey's newfound Daddy status charms the beguiled audience even more.

From across the room, Jessica can feel intrusive eyes on her and she glances up to tackle a keen, insightful look that rivals even Harvey's.

 _You know_ , his narrowed gaze accuses.

Her replying smirk says it all.

Jessica is no fool. She suspected something was up months ago, with Harvey so more relaxed and happier than ever. There had to be a reason for it.

It wasn't like he could get laid more often.

Keeping an inquisitive eye on the two, she was fascinated by the unobtrusive changes that occurred over time, and after the incident with Mr. Durant…well, let's just say, her interest was peaked.

So she did some digging of her own and after calling in a few favours, unearthed sealed documents on a certain Dr. Slater.

She wasn't even surprised when she found out that the boy was living with Harvey. Nor did she utter a single thing the day that Harvey accidentally referred to Mike casually in conversation as 'his little boy' entirely without realising.

It…warmed her heart. Just a little.

But Jessica knows precisely where it is headed, which is why she's been so lenient on Harvey and made an allowance for Mike continuing to work until he tells him.

She has all the preparations in order. They simply need to lay all of their cards on the table.

After the meeting breaks up, just as she'd expected, Harvey pulls her aside as she is pouring herself a dainty cup of tea and whispers furiously, "What in God's name was that all about? Introducing Mike as my _son_? Just what kind of game are you playing at? Because I am well and truly lost as to deciphering your agenda."

Gazing back at him unrepentantly, Jessica takes a dignified sip of her tea and hums, "Perhaps you would be better off directing any queries towards Mike." She bestows a poised, enigmatic smile. "That boy sure does have a penchant for secrets."

* * *

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**-o-0-o- Harvey -o-0-o-**

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* * *

It's impossible to pin down the exact moment when Harvey started thinking of Mike as his.

It could have been during the period he had to comfort him when he was ill, or the time that Harvey uncovered an adorably squiggly drawing of himself that Mike had done when he was in LA and decided on a whim to post it up on the refrigerator, or perhaps it was while he was standing indecisively in the toy store, struggling to choose the perfect stuffed animal so that his pup wouldn't get scared at night, but the truth is, the exact moment doesn't matter.

Somewhere between the nightly tuck ins, well-intentioned scolding's and relentless worrying, Mike evolved from his too-eager associate and - whenever he was feeling exceedingly generous - annoying, empathetic friend into someone that forced him to avidly censor his thoughts just to ensure that 'his son' doesn't slip out unbidden.

But, hearing it just now, he can't deny that it has a pretty nice ring to it.

Nevertheless, that doesn't mean he wanted to be falsely revealed as a father in front of the most important people at the firm. Mike _isn't_ his son and someday that's going to come back and bite them on the ass. Just like everything else. God, why would Jessica _do_ that? To gauge his reaction? For kicks? No, Jessica doesn't do anything purely for the fun of it; she's smarter than that, it has to serve a greater purpose.

If only he knew _what_.

Spying Mike attempting to sneak away unnoticed, Harvey calls, "Hey! Just where do you think you're slinking off to?" The boy winces and reluctantly turns around. "My office. Now."

"Damn," he overhears his low mutter and frowns. Does _everyone_ know something he doesn't?

"Alright," the lawyer begins once they reach his office, pacing while Mike bites his lip and sits. "So Jessica seems to think you're hiding something from me, Donna expressed similar concerns not three days ago, and I'm getting pretty freakin' fed up with feeling out of the loop all the damn time."

The pup sighs. "Harvey-"

"Just...no more lying. Please."

"Okay, I'll play," Mike states in an intriguing fusion of expectant and resigned, "Two days ago."

Harvey glimpses over in confusion. "What?"

"Two days ago, you were working late," he recalls. "I asked to leave but you told me to wait until you were finished. Why?"

Something in his demeanour sparks the other's curiosity, but Harvey simply shrugs, "It was late."

"Irrelevant. I could have caught a cab."

"By yourself?" He wrinkles a dubious brow, before promptly banishing the terrifying thought. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" Mike mulishly asks. "I had the cash. I know the way."

Quickly becoming frustrated by Mike's inability to grasp the seriousness of the situation, Harvey repeats, "But you would have been _alone_." What part of this is he failing to understand?

"Yeah… so?"

"So," Harvey blinks at him incredulously. "Something could have happened. New York is a pretty scary place for-"

"For who? A twenty-five year old man who's lived here his entire life?" He chuckles. "Come on, you're going to have to do better than that, Harvey."

Tugging at his collar and uncomfortably scratching behind his neck, inexplicably feeling like he's being subjected to an interrogation and that his behaviour merits justification, the senior partner argues, "It's dangerous. You could have gotten lost or-"

Mike taps his temple. "Eidetic memory, remember? I think I know the area pretty well by now. I've glanced at a map, I know the street names."

"Why are you being like this?" he says, puzzled. "Mike, you know-"

"Know what? That you're being unreasonable?"

Harvey bristles at the accusation. That stung.

Eyes blazing with defensiveness, he snaps, "There is nothing unreasonable about wanting to make sure you got home safe. If I hadn't been there-"

"If you hadn't been there, I would have been fine. Maybe burnt some pizza or something trying to reheat the previous night's dinner-"

The blood drains from Harvey's face and he almost chokes, "Dinner?"

"Sure," he gives a careless shrug, "If I'd been hungry."

"Mike," Harvey feels like he's seconds away from heart failure, swallowing thickly. "We've been through this. You don't use kitchen appliances without my permission and certainly not-"

"Unsupervised? You know, I never really got that, either. Your microwave can be a bit of an asshole, I'll give you that, but I think I've got the whole cooking thing down."

"Mike," His voice is unrecognisable, rich with alarm. "Listen to me. You could have hurt yourself or-"

"You know what I think your problem is, Harvey?" Mike pauses with a malicious sneer, scornful in a way that does funny things to Harvey's heart, a cutting tightness crushing his chest. "You like to be in control over everything and everyone because you're the best, right? By comparison, we're all incompetent little morons who can't be trusted to get the job done."

His voice takes on a colder note as his fixed stare hardens with a remorseless, foreign glint.

"But the reality is, you're not the only one who's capable of thinking with a little goddamn sense. Louis has fantastic billables, Jessica knows what she wants and she'll get it one way or another, with or without your help, this city is crawling with first-class lawyers. Man, Donna practically governs your entire life. So, why," Mike presses, the force of his gaze desperate. "Two days ago when you were swamped with work, did you leave early just to accommodate me? Why did you assume that without _you_ I'd be completely and utterly helpless?"

Setting his jaw, Harvey breathes steadily through his nose, even as his eyes begin to prick, hot and moist.

A touch of heat enters his voice as he retorts, "Don't you dare. Don't you dare turn this into something self-centred and petty. This is not about me being an arrogant jackass." And as angry and austere as it sounds on the surface, there is an undercurrent to his tone that is dangerously brittle.

"Then what is it? Explain it to me." Mike throws his hands in the air and laughs, nothing short of mocking. "Don't tell me the big bad lawyer actually has _feelings_."

"Maybe I do!" he snarls, suddenly livid as the tears - fucking _tears_ \- spill over. "And to be honest, I'm kind of getting sick of asking myself what's so wrong about it. Maybe, for the first time, I care about something other than work - care about something _more_ than work. And maybe, yeah, I left because I don't trust you not to get into trouble," he admits, "But maybe I was actually looking _forward_ to the break from needy clients who don't know their ass from their elbow. Maybe I like coming home and spending time just joking around with someone without the expectations and insincerity of having to close a goddamn deal. Maybe I even like having you around even though I have to suffer through dim-witted shows and your stupid stuff is everywhere and I fantasise about shoving a sock in your mouth just to get you to shut up sometimes."

"Nice," Mike snorts, "Feeling the love."

But that poisonous façade is gone and his blue eyes are filling up.

"I may not be perfect, Mike," Harvey utters, "But I'm.. I'm _trying_ and-"

"And I should be honoured?" he quips, returning to his default setting of sarcasm as he rubs his runny nose and sniffs.

"And you should stop freakin' interrupting me," the senior partner orders, solid and authoritative. "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. I may not be good at this, Mike, but I'm not a damn airhead either. You're trying to push me away and I want to know why."

Even without the reek of untruths hanging in the air between them, jagged and bitter, Harvey could discern as much from the almost imperceptible way his pup's voice falters when he criticises his actions, unique traces of _I'm Sorry_ to be found in the wretched furrowing of his brows or along his purposeful, tightened lip when he takes the time to read between the lines.

"You don't get it," the boy huffs. "You don't see that it is _wrong_. You're not _supposed_ to care."

Harvey plunges a flummoxed hand in his hair and tugs. "Why the hell not?"

"Because it's not _real_ ," he shouts, pained and cynical. "None of this is real and it's not fair to you!"

 _What_ isn't real? _What_ isn't fair? He's so tired of running around in circles and not making any headway.

"Mike, none of what you're saying makes any damn sense," he growls in frustration. "How is-"

With an abruptness Harvey doesn't know if his heart will ever forgive him for, Mike announces, "Harvey… I'm quitting."

He reels back. " _What_?"

"Tomorrow I'm going to Jessica to hand in my official resignation. Trust me, I'm doing you a favour." And with that, with no explanation or goodbye or hell, he'd even settle for an off the cuff, 'See you later,' the kid he had begun to regard as his own flesh and blood turns to leave.

For a moment, he can nothing but stand stationary against his will in shock.

Then it hits him that this is it. It is now or never. Because Mike sure as shit didn't look like he was planning on coming back to be reasoned with.

"Hey!" Harvey yells, driving forward his bizarrely wooden legs and hurrying to catch up, snagging the boy's arm to still him. "What the hell, Mike?"

"Let me go, Harvey," he says tightly, gaze skimming his own before darting away from him - And holy hell, Mike is slipping through his fingers and he doesn't have a goddamn clue how to fix it. He's the fixer who can't fucking fix it. "This is it. I'm done."

"No," he outright rejects. The tremor in his hand is getting worse. He feels like he wants to scream, or cry, or shake Mike until he agrees to stop _ruining_ everything. "No, you don't get to just leave. You don't get to walk outta here acting all cagey and evasive out of nowhere. No, you give one damn good reason why I shouldn't kick your worthless ass into next Tuesday for being such a goddamn idiot."

He is _this_ close to begging.

"Because… Because-" Mike swallows a groan of vacillation.

Come on, come on. _Just. Tell. Me._

He roughly smears a hand across his mouth. "Because _what_?"

Backed into a corner, Mike rips his arm out of the older man's grip and cries, "Because you can't have a fourteen-year-old working for you!"

Very, very careful not to react, Harvey's voice is totally flat when he pronounces, "…What?"

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_Thanks for reading._

_Ahhh, I am so sorry for leaving it there. Please don't hate me._


	10. Not Your Son

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**CHAPTER NINE:**

Not Your Son

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**A/N:** Yes, I am a despicable excuse for a human being and I am so very sorry for the delay. This chapter took _forever_ to write and I still sort of hate it. There was so much starting and stopping and stupid road blocks. Please forgive my lack of willpower/motivation/inspiration to get this completed. I hope you're not too disappointed.

This chapter is dedicated to Gaelige ~ for christening your own Jellybean.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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When he was ten, Mike told his father that he hated him - even meant it for a while.

He was sent to his room without supper, furious with himself and furious at the world for dealing him such a rough hand. He wished he were like all the other kids - their Dad's didn't yell at them for studying the concept of Absurdism in rapt fascination after inhaling the entire works of Albert Camus in one day the same way other boys greedily explored their back yards until sundown.

But then, most boys would never read - or willingly choose to learn - when they could play.

He was a bizarre anomaly that his Dad could never quite grasp. He still loved him, absolutely, one hundred percent, his love is not to be debated, but the disappointment that flashed in his eyes every time Mike acted like, well, Mike, spoke of sunny trips to the park, tossing a Frisbee back and forth, long, gritty weekends hiking, a shared obsession with sports and everything else he wasn't.

Mike.. he was different. And his father never let him forget it.

Of course - neither does… Neither does Harvey.

Difference is, Harvey never makes him feel inadequate or isolates him because of his individuality, never does he ever make him feel like _less_. Around Harvey, he is brilliant and intuitive and inexplicable, and yet, there is always this unflinching conviction that he could be so much more. His genius is celebrated and appreciated and if, for even once second, the older man believes he is squandering his potential, then he is reminded, however brusquely, that idiocy is a direct affliction of inexperience and arrogance - it doesn't matter how many books you memorize or how textbook smart you are, there's always room for improvement, so get off your high horse and quit acting like some lame-ass know-it-all.

Laziness doesn't cut it. Doubt is ditched in favour of purpose. Intelligence is nurtured and incredulity is ignored.

He isn't _the_ best, but he wants to _be_ the best. Harvey keeps him grounded, focused, but most of all, he makes Mike _proud_ of who he is. His freaky memory isn't shameful, or to be shied away from, but it also isn't everything, even if it's definitely something.

Mike teaches Harvey to be patient, tolerant and compassionate. Harvey teaches Mike that the world can be cruel and this life takes its toll, but he's strong enough to tough it out.

They're better together. Together, they do better. But still, Mike's positive, they're better off without each other.

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_Now:_

_"Have you lost your flippin' mind?"_

"Harvey, it's true. I know it sounds insane, but-"

"You've been gallivanting around this whole time acting like everything's fine when really, you've been balancing some delicate fucking tightrope between two _separate **mentalities**_!" Harvey sums up, his voice strident with harried, angry amazement. "Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner? Did you think I wouldn't believe you?" He pushes his hand against his head and digs his heel into his scalp, wrenching his scruffy hair back and inhaling sharply. "How could you keep this from me?" Harvey demands. "Dammit, Mike!"

"I didn't know how to tell you," Mike tries to justify, tone ringed with brutal sincerity as infinite blue orbs fasten on him pleadingly. "It seemed crazy-"

"It _is_ crazy," Harvey counters curtly. "But I could've helped if I'd only known what in Christ's name I was dealing with. You should have come to me _the second_ you found out about this."

"I-I wanted to," the boy declares, features contorted in confliction. He feels like he's going to be sick. His palms are sweating, fingers tingling. The guilt is ravaging his insides. "I just…I couldn't. Harvey, I swear, I didn't mean for it to go this far-"

He would do anything to wipe that look of betrayal off Harvey's face.

"Just out of curiosity," he says conversationally, acid littering the foundations of his casual tone, "Were you ever gonna fill me in on your little trip backwards in time?"

Mike hesitates. "…I would have said goodbye."

Squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, Harvey takes a difficult minute to compose himself. His lips shudder with strain as he chokes, "That's what I thought."

The sight of tears glistening on his-his - _Christ_ \- his father figure's cheeks as he struggles to keep himself in check nearly causes Mike to shrivel up into the foetal position right there. It's as if someone ripped out his innards and lit his remains on fire, shame burning through his core. He can't seem to catch his breath. "Harvey…Harvey, _please_. Look at me, dammit!"

His voice is a mere whisper. "I…I can't-"

Because if he looks at him, he'll see a montage of happy memories - the _best_ memories - and he's not ready for those cherished moments he hoards inside like precious cargo to crumble to dust before his eyes.

"I'm-I'm _sorry_ ," Mike croaks. And weren't they here before? It seems as if he's forever apologising and it's just not good enough anymore. There aren't words to describe this…this feeling of loss, heavy on his shoulders.

He fucked up. He never should have hid this from him. "I am so, so sorry. I understand if you feel like I exploited you-"

The senior partner makes a noise of disgust. "Give me some credit!" he snaps. "I don't feel _used_ , Mike. Jesus. I've got a news flash for you, _punk_. I'm not some blubbering teenage girl whose first kiss reeked of alcohol and disappointment. You're telling me that I've been setting myself up for-for _parenthood_ unknowingly for months and you didn't trust me enough to let me in on the big secret! Do you have _any_ idea how worried I've been? I didn't have a clue what was happening to you and it fucking terrified me!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't think-"

"You're damn right you didn't. Aren't you the one always preaching about how we're a team? That I should treat you like an equal because we can accomplish anything so long we confide in each other?" He snorts. "Yeah, don't get me wrong, I didn't think we'd go prancing off into the sunset together or anything - but seriously? Bet you feel like a pansy-ass tool now."

"No," Mike replies quietly. "I feel like the cold-blooded prick who just exposed every minuscule weakness in his friend and mentor and proceeded to gouge out every single one of them."

"Right." The reflective sheen to Harvey's eyes doesn't go unnoticed.

After that, they lapse into agitated silence, with the lawyer burning a troubled hole into the floor as he paces while Mike holds his face in his hands and awaits his verdict with grim resignation. One thing is clear: it's only going to get so much worse. The shocking revelations aren't through with them yet.

"I'll do it," Harvey suddenly pronounces, voice gruff with I've-made-my-bed-don't-think-that-I-won't-lie-in-it.

Mike glances over at him in confusion. "What?"

"I'll be your caregiver…thingy," he says uncomfortably. "Whatever it is they're calling it. You're a minor, Mike," he recounts, forging ahead knee-deep into damage control mode. Because of course he would jump into the logistics of it. Of course. You can't patch up fickle feelings in one remarkable swoop, after all. He's a man of the facts.

But this isn't a court hearing gone sour or a skinned elbow or dodgy bylaws. This is real life. _Their_ lives. There are no loop holes and you can't kiss it all better. Not through outlining a step-by-step, bullet-proof strategy. Not like this.

"You'll need a legal guardian," he continues, oblivious to Mike's deep-set frown. "You can't smoke or drink or gamble. You can't drive for at least another two years. Hell, you can't even get a tattoo even _with_ parental consent. Not unless you want to go out of state, anyway. I'm a respectable, well-adjusted single guy with a considerably high, steady income, who can more than afford to take a runt like you under my wing. You're basically my own personal freeloader anyway. What more is a little scrap of paper?"

"No. No, I can't let you do that."

"You're not letting me do anything," Harvey fires back, and his eyes are cold. "I'm offering."

"And I'm saying no."

"Why? Who else is it gonna be, huh?" he asks, tilting his head in patronising curiosity. "I mean, no offence, but you don't exactly have a free pick of the custodian litter, Mike. So who'll it be? Me? Donna? _Louis_?" He chuckles. "Come on. Be realistic."

"Could you please take this a little more seriously?" Mike bites, hands clenching by his sides.

Harvey stiffens. "Whatever gave you the impression that I wasn't?"

"Uh.. how about the fact that you haven't _at all_ thought this through?" he jeers, prowling forward as his lips warp into a furious snarl and his hard, blazing stare drills into his. "This isn't the kind of thing that you volunteer for on a whim, Harvey! We're talking about a drastic, permanent lifestyle change. There is no backing out once the deal has been struck. You can't renegotiate the terms of your agreement the minute they no longer suit your purpose. Read the damn fine print before you sign the dotted line!"

"Quit nitpicking," Harvey accuses. "We'll work it out. We always do."

"You can't guarantee that! Don't you see how big this is? No, obviously, you don't, if all you can manage is a great, big _whoop-de-doo_!" Mike cries sarcastically, throwing his hands in the air carelessly. "God, Harvey, this would change _everything_. You won't just be some slick, bamf lawyer with zero roots beyond your commitment to your job. You'll be a _dad_."

Harvey purses his lips and half-shrugs. "And?"

"And? _And_?" Mike repeats incredulously. "Believe it or not, that actually means something!"

Blinking slowly, he drawls, "I never would have guessed."

Overcome with frustration, the youngster grits his teeth and breathes out evenly, before relaying, "Listen, there's no point arguing with you. It doesn't matter anyway."

Harvey's eyes slim with suspicion and he asks, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm not giving you the option. Simple as." He doesn't need to pause to deliberate. What Harvey doesn't understand is that he's already made up his mind. Long ago.

Tipping his chin and precisely appraising him, his boss furrows his brows and states in surprise, "You're serious."

"Yeah. I am. You're not taking me in," he responds resolutely. Then, bracing himself for the oncoming objections, his tongue darts out to nervously lick his lips as he reveals, "I…I…" He blows out a breath. "Look, I want to go into foster care." Harvey instantly pales. "The system's not great but it beats botching up your five-year plan. Managing partner in two, right? Gotta have your name on the wall sometime."

He is completely bowled over, fighting speechlessness as he splutters, "Mike, that's ridiculo-"

"I'm not dicking around," Mike tells him. "Look, I've thought it through and this is the only reasonable conclusion I've come to. It's what's best for everyone."

"You can't-That's not-What…what about your stuff?" Harvey asks wildly, floundering. "Your apartment?"

"Already boxed and ready." He thrusts out his chin, tensing shoulders the only sign of remorse. "As for my apartment, I moved out weeks ago. There's already a new tenant."

"You…you did all of this behind my back?"

"You don't sound impressed," he notes.

"All the evasiveness, the sneaking around…" Mike doesn't think there's anything in this world that could possibly erase the hurt that pierces his voice. His wounded expression is simply shattering. Smeared with the realisation that Mike never intended on staying. Ever.

It's gut-wrenching to witness the exact moment someone throws their walls up and barricades themselves inside.

In the belittling tone of someone who already knows the answer and merely seeks confirmation, Harvey demands, "Just how long have you been planning to throw all of this away, exactly?" And Mike isn't naïve enough to think this will lead anywhere favourable.

"I'm not throwing anything away!" he retorts, nostrils flaring, jaw clamped so tightly that it might ache, but it's impossible to tell with the grief spearing his lungs and wringing out his stomach. "Harvey, don't you get it? _I'm giving it back._ I'm trying to give you _your_ life back. No more stressing over my silly shit. No more compromises. No more packing kiddie lunches and hugging night night. You can go back to doing whatever you please with whoever you please, without me getting in the way. I won't be invading your home and monopolising all of your time. You can be free."

He laughs weakly. "I can waiver all responsibility and leave you high and dry, you mean."

"Maybe," Mike murmurs. "But it was always going to end this way, Harvey. It was never going to last forever - any of it. Deep down, you know that. Least this way I can…I don't know. Do things differently. Do…better. The time for playing housies is over. It's time to get real."

"You're full of shit, kid. And you know it." _It doesn't have to end like this._

"I'm just trying to do what's right." It's over.

"Right for who exactly? _You_?" His heated gaze slices into Mike's disintegrating determination, exuding undiluted bleakness that belongs anywhere, absolutely _anywhere_ , except on a brazen man like Harvey's face, and for the first time, the kid begins to question if he can truly go through with this. He starts to speak - to summon some pretty sentiment out of nowhere - but for the life of him, he can't think of a single thing. "Because it sounds to me like you're running from the only real thing you've ever known. You know what I think?" he sneers. "I think that whatever this shit is that we've landed ourselves in feels right. _Too_ right. And that scares the hell out of you."

"You're not listening! Man, you never listen!" Mike shouts. "This isn't a get out of jail free card, Harvey. None of this is a get out of jail free card!"

"You're goddamn straight it isn't," his boss utters forcefully. His voice grows more passionate with each word. "It's a stupid-ass decision which you are going to regret for the rest of your life. Because I won't throw you under the bus, Mike. But at the end of the day, it's your call. And despite what I might think about your bull-crap best intentions, I'll respect that it's your choice to make."

"Good," Mike answers simply. "Then I'll be sure to close the door on my way out." He smiles but it feels like a lie. He smiles but it's brittle and it splinters. But that doesn't matter. He knows what he's doing is right. "Better late than never, right?"

"I won't grovel, Mike. I _don't_ grovel."

The former associate lays a hand on the door handle and pulls. "I would never expect you to."

In that moment, his breaths are as shallow as his godforsaken smiles.

"For what it's worth…" Harvey murmurs, utterly defeated, "You're making a huge mistake."

Mike nods briskly, tears blurring his vision and months worth of cultivating this incredibly easy _(too easy)_ bond stuck in his throat. He swallows slowly and sniffs. "See you in ten years, Harvey. It's been a helluva ride, but I'd like to step off now."

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When Donna finds him, he's seated on the couch of his office, scotch in one hand, the other stroking Jellybean's fur.

She doesn't comment on his dishevelled appearance - hair unkempt, shirt crinkled under his half-buttoned vest, jacket cast aside, ever-darkening circles under bloodshot eyes. All she sees is the anguish shinning clearly in her best friend's eyes, plain as day. The same anguish she knows, out there, somewhere, is mirrored in the absent Mike.

"Oh, Harvey…" Donna whispers. She realises he must have been here all night.

Breath hitching painfully, he blunders his way through the entire story with his head resting on her shoulder, gripping the furry wolf as she rubs circles onto his back. It should be shocking, but somehow…it isn't.

"Yikes. I can't believe you were gearing yourself up to be Mike's father," Donna articulates at last, after a long spell of thoughtful silence.

Harvey gazes up at her through dull, half-lidded eyes and deadpans, "Yes, you can."

"Yeah, I was just trying to make you feel better," she confesses breezily. "Is it working?"

"What do you think?" he says dryly, but Donna swears she detects a hint of a smile in his voice.

"And you just let him walk out of here?" she asks disbelievingly.

The weight of his resulting stare is suffocating. "What was I supposed to do, Donna?" Harvey gripes. "Ring up social services and say, 'Hi, there. If you happen upon a young, vulnerable teen, - fluffy blonde hair, about yeigh high, acts a bit like a yipping, bouncy chipmunk - could you please return him to this address? Thanks very much for your help.' And when they ask what relation I am to said vulnerable teen and - why might he have run away? Are there any problems at home? - I'll have the pleasure of saying, 'Oh. He doesn't actually want anything to do with me. I'm just the guy who used to write his pay checks.'"

And no, he does not sound the least bit bitter.

Shoving him away and tutting, Donna rolls her eyes and mutters, "God, you can be such a butt-head sometimes."

Insert raised brows. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on! Jump off the pity wagon already. Boo fricking hoo," she mocks. Donna shakes her head and sighs, before reproaching, " _You_ are the adult in the equation, Harvey. Or have you forgotten Mike and his obviously fickle state of mind? He doesn't know what he wants! Well, no," she amends, poking her cheek with her tongue. "He does. But he's too much of a hopeless, self-denying moron to ask you to make that sacrifice!"

"Wait a sec. I _never_ insinuated-"

"But that's what he'll believe," she explains more gently. "He's just a kid trying to make the best of a pretty suckish situation, and he's putting you and _your_ needs first when it should be the other way around. He thinks that this will have some sort of negative impact on your life when he couldn't be farther from the truth. You don't see how you are with him, Harvey, but I do. And I'll be damned if I let either of you throw away something that damn _good_."

"Donna, he doesn't _want_ me."

"Have you not been listening to a word I've said? Or that he's said?" she exclaims. "Mike is about one adoring hair ruffle away from flinging his arms around your neck and holding on forever. But it's stupid shit like that that's driving him away. He doesn't want to burden you with his neediness. I mean, _hellooo_ ," Donna sings, "He's been looking after his grandmother and himself for _years_. He and self-sufficiency have a loooong history and Lord knows, that kid has a stubborn streak that may even surpass yours. _You_ are the one who has to man up and tell him how you feel. It's up to you to show Mike that you care about him as more than just your work buddy or earnest little sidekick. That boy is a bundle of insecurity and abandonment issues. He needs to be reassured that you want him to stick around for life."

Harvey moans, "I don't know ho-"

"Yes, you do. Use your words, Harvey," she encourages patronisingly, patting him on the back. "You've been known to revive a little soppiness when the occasion calls for it." She pauses, tilting her head to the side and allowing, "Granted, it's buried under years of self-denial, malfunctioning defence mechanisms and stoic, rather-cut-your-own-balls-off-and-eat-them-than-acknowledge-that-you-feel-things machoism, but that beautiful, sensitive man is in there somewhere serenading to flowers and crying at mushy chick flicks."

"Thank you, Donna," he grumbles, "For not making me feel like some fucked-up cross between a soulless douche-bag and a gigantic pussy."

Running her fingers through her hair, the red-headed woman shrugs lightly and beams, "That's what I'm here for."

"I just…What if…?" Harvey trails off and sighs, eyes incorrigibly serious. "What if I can't fix this?"

"You will," Donna declares in a hard tone which dares anyone to disagree. "You're Harvey fucking Specter, aren't you?" She jerks out her chin. "Last I heard, that son of a bitch doesn't go down without a fight."

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He won't return his calls.

He doesn't know where he is or what he's doing - Mike could be anywhere! The nagging worry follows him around everywhere, all the time, no matter where he goes or who he's with.

_mikemikemikemikemikemikemike-_

It's fucking intolerable.

How Mike ever thought things could go back to normal - that _he_ was capable of reverting back to his old ways in an instant - is beyond him. Without his puppy by his side, Harvey doesn't think things will ever feel normal again.

Harvey feels numb. Like this is all simply a dream, and tomorrow he will wake up to Mike's exasperating whining as he throws a spectacular strop over breakfast - happy, more so than ever, to call his house a home.

But it's not a dream; this is real. And it's eating at him, it's incurable.

Then comes the day all of his worst fears come true.

He is gathering the paperwork he was _supposed_ to be working on - his concentration has been shot to hell - in his hands and is stacking them into a semi-organised pile to deal with later - always later - when he receives a perturbing call.

"Harvey Specter?" an unfamiliar voice inquires.

He frowns, pausing in confusion. A new client, maybe? "Speaking."

"This is the Royal Hospital," the woman clarifies and his stomach drops to his shoes. "We're calling about a Michael Ross. I don't mean to alarm you, but-"

"What happened?" he questions in a panicked rush, heart hammering in his throat. "Is he okay?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter over the phone. I assure you, it's nothing serious-"

"I'm on my way." Hurriedly grabbing his things, one shoulder supporting his cell as he gratefully thanks her, Harvey hurries out the door with only a breathless, 'It's Mike. I'll explain later,' to an alarmed Donna. After a maddening hour stuck in traffic, he at long last arrives at the hospital, heading straight to the nurses' station.

The collar of his shirt scratching his neck, a ripple of anxiety pursuing his every movement, Harvey ignores his pounding headache and stammers out a polite, "Hi, I'm here about Michael Ross. I got a call over an hour ago to say he'd been injured?" It's not supposed to be framed like a question, but somehow it ends up as one.

"You're his father?" the nurse asks, glancing up.

"Yeah," he confirms without pausing. "Is he alright? They wouldn't tell me anything."

"Relax, sir. He's fine. Your son had an accident-"

Harvey blanches, fretting, "What kind of accident?"

"He tripped and fell down a flight stairs-" The lawyer's legs go weak at the knees and he braces himself against the desk. "Oh, no," the nurse quickly intervenes, noticing his reaction. "Come on. Take a seat. Deep breaths. That's it." Harvey struggles to pull the air into his lungs, feeling dizzy and shaky and completely out of control. He's aware on some level that his ass has by some means spontaneously tracked down a chair, but all he can focus on are his loud, demanding gasps. He's never felt like this before.

After a few horrifying minutes of weakness, a touch of colour is restored to his ashen cheeks, while a little feeling returns to his stiff limbs.

"You good?" the young nurse enquires kindly, brows knitted in concern. Suppressing a grimace, Harvey nods, not trusting his voice. "Let me fetch you a glass of water. I'll be right back. The doctor will be with you shortly."

True to her word, he gets his water and a thin, attractive woman in her late thirties appears little over half an hour later, calling out, "Family of Micheal Ross?"

He stands abruptly.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Lambert," she greets, shaking his cold hand. "The good news is, your son is fine. Some slight bruising and a mild concussion, but no long-lasting damage, you'll be glad to hear. He was very lucky." Yeah, lucky enough to _fall down the stairs_. "But we'd like to keep him overnight for observation all the same. It's just a precautionary measure. I'm positive there's nothing to worry about it."

"So he'll be okay?" he double-checks.

"Absolutely."

Harvey breathes easily for what feels like the first time in weeks and wonders, "Should I...? Yeah, I should, go, um, see-"

"You'd better hurry," she smiles softly at him. "He's been asking for you. Room 119."

That's all he needed to hear.

Scrunched in pain, Mike's face lights up when he sees him and he extends an impatient hand and whimpers, "H'vey," with blotches of red staining his water-logged cheeks, causing Harvey to shut down almost immediately. It's not that he's staring, but it's the _way_ he's staring - like Harvey is the most incredible person in the world. It has the same effect as a blow to the chest.

It…this…it's breaking his damn heart.

All of a sudden, he has no idea what to do.

" _H'vey_ ," Mike moans around his thumb. He's so small. Was he always this small? It sure doesn't feel like it. "Huwts, H'vey."

That single sob spurs him into action.

Weak fingers clutch his expensive tie as he gathers the teen in his arms and tugs him onto his lap. "Shh, I'm here now," he appeases, stroking his trembling frame and peppering his face with kisses. Lowering his voice to a whisper, Harvey murmurs, "Your Dad's finally here." He wipes away hot tears with the pad of his thumb and tucks his head under chin, craving the closeness.

But the moment is bittersweet.

His meter is running. Mike won't be hopped up on painkillers forever. Sooner of later, he'll have to pay the ugly price.

Harvey rocks the half-delirious boy back and forth and gently pats his back, and despite the heavy quietness of the hospital, the quietness of the cramped room, right then he wills for silence.

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Another hand grips his arm and he feels something cool and pointed stroke his vein. Injecting or withdrawing - how can he be sure? Groaning, Mike musters the strength to waver his eyelids, yet all he can see is darkness. Spits of light reveal carefully crafted, interwoven lengths of white string - a cloth, then. One that is damp and uncomfortably sticky on his forehead. His lashes softly brush against the material as he tries in vain to look around him, only to be hushed by a smooth, soothing voice crooning mellow lyrics in his ear.

The boy feels pressure on his scalp then, featherlike fingers gently teasing his hair.

Reaching up and stroking what feels like late-night stubble, he slurs, "H-h'vey?" A burning sensation in his head hinders his thought process and everything is so confusing, infected with haziness.

"I'm here, puppy. I'm right here." Lips stick slightly to his hair and he slowly becomes aware of the two long arms stretched securely around him. Squirming in agitation, he snuggles into the warmth enveloping him and breathes in a familiar, crisp scent, instinctively calmed. "There we go. Take it easy, sleepyhead. You're okay. I've got you."

Reassured, he closes his eyes once more. When Mike opens them, the cloth is gone.

Unfortunately, he can't say the same of his former boss.

He sits in the chair beside him, cradling a bundle of their interlaced fingers against his torso as he softly hums, abruptly cutting off as Mike's involuntary gasp of pain calls attention to his recovering responsiveness.

Neither speak as Mike slowly retracts his clammy hand, withdrawing from the offer of warmth and comfort and encouragement.

Despite the pain meds pumping through his system, there is no numb indifference, no escape from the sudden pang of loss that surfaces the second he allows himself to feel it. The second unconsciousness slips away and he's left painfully, achingly alert, with nowhere to run and hide. Not this time.

He raises his hand to his head and feels the fresh gauze, imagines the dried, crusted blood that had saturated the previous bandage, fixed with the amateurish skill of a considerate stranger. Head wounds bleed a lot, he's learned.

Mike doesn't remember much. The fall itself is a blur. Hardly a surprise either, given his absentmindedness sometimes. Memories merge of tears and throbbing and furious red and queasiness and dry heaving.

He remembers crying out for Harvey.

He didn't come. Yet now he's here.

The only sounds are of the screeches of rubber soles on the polished floor from the corridor, the hopeful beeping of monitors, the distant buzz of conversation, their matched breathing. They still don't speak. They don't say anything.

Settled on Harvey's lap is a bright-eyed Jellybean. Somehow that makes everything worse. Why couldn't he have just forgotten about him?

"What are you doing here?" Mike asks finally, forcing his mouth to co-operate.

"Well, hello to you, too. Thank you, Harvey, for staying with me all night," the older man responds in a poor imitation of the boy's voice. "Oh, no problem, Mike. Anything for my little darling."

"I never asked you to come down here," he points out haughtily.

Harvey snorts softly and shakes his head in disbelief. "Then you probably should have cashed me in for a spanking new medical proxy when you politely excused yourself from my life," he shoots back.

Mike morphs his lips into a relaxed, cocky smirk. "Sorry. I was going get around to that eventually. Had other things on my mind. You understand, right?" The intensity of the animosity that laces his words takes Harvey by surprise and he bites back the snappy retort lathering his tongue. He's had enough sarcasm to last a lifetime.

Brows creasing as his tries to decipher meaning in the boy's unfathomable expression, flickers of doubt awaken in his chest and Harvey scratches his neck and clears his throat, before softly admitting, "I'm glad you didn't."

Mike groans. "Oh, frickin' hell. Not this again…"

"Mike, I get it. You feel trapped. Like this situation is hopeless because, from where you're standing, it seems like I don't have a choice-"

His blue eyes flare. "You _don_ _'t_ have a choice-"

"But I do," he objects. "Of course, I do. I have free will, don't I? I could walk away, Mike. Any time I want. But I won't. I don't want to."

"You should," Mike hurls the suggestion at him so bitterly, it may as well be a knife aiming straight for his heart. "You should dump me in the foster care system 'til I'm legal just like I told you to - why not?" He shrugs recklessly. "I'm not going anywhere. Sadly, there aren't a whole lot of people out there searching for the ideal, psychologically damaged teenager."

"No, there's not," the senior partner agrees, gaze steady. "Not least the man begging for a chance in front of you."

"Don't kid yourself, Harvey," Mike scoffs, but Harvey can see his persistence is affecting the boy more than he'll let anyone see. "I don't want your half-assed pity. I've been an orphan since I was eleven years old. I'm no stranger to being alone. I managed by myself before you; I'll manage again."

"That's the thing, Mike. You don't have to."

"Yes, I do," he asserts. "Why are you being so goddamn stubborn about this? Let it go already. Jeez."

" _I'm_ being stubborn? Me? That's rich coming from the banged up fourteen year old who couldn't sleep without cuddling into my chest."

"Don't you dare," Mike hisses. "You don't get to throw this…this stinkin' condition back in my face! I don't need any crap from you about things that I can't help. I've just _barely_ come to terms with it myself."

"It wasn't intended as a gibe, kiddo," Harvey counters, features softening. "I'm just saying, why do you continue to deny yourself things you so clearly need? You left Jellybean and your blanket behind, and, judging by the bags under your eyes, you've been paying for it ever since. I caught you tucking your hand under your thigh so that you can't suck your thumb despite being in obvious distress, both physically and emotionally, and you won't let me take you in out of this-this twisted sense of loyalty."

"Is there a point to all of this?" His voice is tolerant, even. Harvey figures it's a good sign.

"Why can't you just admit that this noble plan of yours is dumb as hell and that it's making us both miserable? Why do you insist on sabotaging your own happiness at every turn? The weed, Trevor, your multiple flings with Rachel…It's all there," Harvey persists. "Do you know the real reason you won't allow anyone to help you in your great time of need? Because deep down, you don't think you're worth it. You don't think you deserve a second shot at everything you missed out on the first time round. You're still punishing yourself over stupid mistakes and it scares me to think that you're never going to give yourself a break - not even now that you have this clean slate."

"That's a nice theory you got there, Harvey," Mike derides, settling hostile lips over his teeth. "Too bad it's a load of crap." He's getting defensive, the blue of his iris' glittering more vividly than ever, stinging with turbulent venom.

Harvey should just let this go. He should back off. But he won't. He won't give up. _Can't_ give up. Not when there's so much at stake.

"I wish it were," he says earnestly. "Then we wouldn't be stuck here."

The teen's smile turns innocent as he lounges back and muses, "Are you sure this isn't just about _you_ not being able to handle the fact that the last few months were nothing more than a childish fairytale? That a _drug_ made the great Harvey Specter care? You must feel like an idiot."

"I applaud the performance, Mike. Really. Bravo. You're good, but you're not _that_ good. You ain't fooling me."

"I fooled you for over six months."

"No," Harvey says slowly, "You neglected to tell me the truth for over six months. There's a difference."

"Not really," he shrugs. "It was a lie no matter how you look at it. I took advantage of your hospitality and the effects of that blasted chemical. You didn't know what you were doing."

"Mike, for the last time, I am not being forced into this! I-I _want_ this, okay?" he tells him, desperate to get through to him. To make him see sense. "I want to be there - _here_ \- for you. I don't care what Dr. Debbie Downer has to say, I'm not a cave man. This isn't uncontrollable instinct making me do shit that I don't want to do. The truth is… I'm-I'm kind of glad. Or…or maybe that's not the right word. Maybe I'm relieved, I don't know. I've always been somewhat…" He winces, hesitating. "-Restricted… emotionally and for a while there, it seemed like I _couldn_ _'t_ care, even if I wanted to. It can be a real struggle sometimes for me to let people in. So _this_?" He gestures fervently between them. "This has given me a chance, too. What if this isn't just about you finding some mediocre guardian to watch over you and make sure you don't drink under-age or stay out all night partying? What if I needed this just as much as you do? What if I need you too?"

Mike glimpses at him briefly at that last part, gaze quickly sliding away again, and the older man has his total attention - even if he can't stand to watch the emotions splay across his face because he's scared of what it will do to him.

"I don't want to go back to being that guy who refuses to show even a smidgen of emotion because he's too damn afraid to look human," Harvey confides, before adding faintly, "Please don't make me."

Mike is quiet for a long time.

Eventually, he brushes his gaze against Harvey's momentarily, then ducks his head and drops his eyes to the bedspread which he kneads nervously, carefully. "You know," he tentatively remarks, "When I was a kid, I always thought I'd grow up to be a hero."

The meaning is clear.

With a painfully relieved smile, Harvey pulls him into a tight hug and kisses the top of his head, before finishing, "Well, it's not too late now."

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_Thanks for reading._

_For those of you who don't recognise the reference, the last two lines are quotes from_ Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. _Butch says to Sundance: 'You know, when I was a kid, I always thought I'd grow up to be a hero.' To which, he replies, 'Well, it's too late now.' Obviously, Harvey modifies it a little to fit their situation. I just felt like their usual exchange of movie quotes would be perfect for this moment (as opposed to a gushy I love you and I feel your pain and I'll stay with you for ever and ever and ever let's form one small happy family) and I personally feel like it's very_ them _. What do you think?_


	11. Live Your Dream

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**CHAPTER TEN:**

Live Your Dream

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**A/N:** I know, I know. It's been forever since I've updated. Very sorry about that, by the way, but I had a very detailed rough draft of this chapter sitting nicely in my fic folder for a while and when I did eventually get around to finishing it, my memory pen crashed and I lost everything, which really bummed me out. This was supposed to be one chapter, but it got so long while I was rewriting (I kept thinking of all these other things I wanted to add in), that I decided to split it in two. The next is already written (thank God for that, am I right?) and will be uploaded within the next few days.

This chapter is dedicated to Stargate6525, who I have kept waiting long enough, as both an apology and a thank-you. I hope you enjoy.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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"Okay, really? We're doing this? C'mon, guys, we've never been even close to official. Who are we trying to kid? It's silly… Alright, fine. But I hope you know the humiliation you're subjecting me to. I'm feeling pretty frickin' stupid right now.

Terrific. Here goes nothing:

Hi, everyone. My name's Michael Specter. Or Mike, I guess. For anyone who knows me. _Which you all do_...okay, that's the last of it. I'll stop now, promise. So, ah, it's been about five months since I was adopted. My social worker says I, 'appear to have acclimatized.' Whatever the hell that means. And that my 'episodes' are 'under control.' She's nice and all, and she always brings me jellybeans when she visits because she's hopelessly clueless like that, but hey, free candy, right? Oh, and her glaringly obvious crush on my Dad is a little creepy and the monthly assessments can be a real drag what with her batting her eyelashes every five seconds, but it's worth it for the infinite teasing material and it keeps Donna happy, and…yeah, getting off topic.

Truth is, being a teenager is actually pretty awesome. I have loads of free time, less responsibilities, hormones are the best excuse for any dumb mistake ever and there are times when I literally feel invincible. Well - at least until my Dad finds out what I've done. He's helpful like that. But most of all, _guess who doesn't have to wear a lame, monkey suit anymore?_

But, um, yeah…

It's not perfect. As most of you know, I was a little late to the whole welcome-back-to-puberty party, but ever since that little health scare, I've made a real effort to turn it around. Things are…things are pretty good.

They're really, really good."

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_Prior to The Little Health Scare:_

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Harvey pads into the dim bedroom barefoot and slowly pulls the blinds half-way, careful not to flood the room with light and overwhelm the slumbering youngster.

"Wakey wakey, puppy," he murmurs softly, perching on the edge of the bed and gently rubbing his son's back in long, expansive strokes. "Rise and shine. Time to get up." Swatting at his hand and wriggling down deeper into his makeshift cocoon, Mike grumbles inarticulately in response. "What's that? I can't understand you, puppy. Speak up."

" _I said_ I don't wa _aaa_ annaaa, Har' _vyyyy_ ," Mike whines, springing up abruptly with a fierce scowl. Sweeping the covers over his head, he flops down once more and pushes his face into the pillow. "Sleepy."

Harvey rolls his eyes at the histrionics. "I know you're tired-"

"Then why'd you wake me up?" he cuts in grouchily.

The older man smothers a smile.

"Can't I come see my oh-so-sweet son in the morning?"

There isn't a trace of sweetness in the irritated voice that bites back.

"No."

"Oh. Well." Harvey sighs. "That's too bad."

Mike shifts curiously. The older man hears the unspoken question.

"It's just…" Another long, drawn-out sigh. "Thor's in the kitchen." Ever since he adopted Mike, and even long before that, Harvey has really been forced to brush up on his superhero knowledge. "You know Thor? Big guy, built like an ogre-sized nuclear weapon? Yeah, that guy - standing smack bam in the middle of our kitchen."

The kid giggles despite himself. "No, he's not!"

"Is too," Harvey insists. "And see, right, he's torn his cape. He was swinging his hammer and the silly billy let go too soon and the hammer, it went right through it! Right through his big ol' red cape. So now, see, there's this giant, hammer-shaped hole in the middle of his beautiful red cape and he's real cut up about it, y'know? So guess what I said?"

Mike slowly peeks his head out over the mound of sheets. "…what?"

"I said, you know my son Mikey? And he said, I do. Well, he's got this red blanket. I told him it would be a perfect replacement for his beautiful red cape. Only difference is it's a little bit fuzzy. He didn't seem too sure about that, but agreed to take a look. Problem is, I'm gonna need to borrow your blankie, just 'til he gets his fixed, but I can't do that if you're lying in bed feeling all sorry for yourself."

"That's a silly story," Mike says, but his bright eyes are at least above the sheets now. That's progress.

"The best stories are the silly ones," Harvey smiles, before adding softly, "You planning on hiding under there all day?"

"…Maybe."

"That doesn't seem very fun. Wouldn't you rather spend the day with your friends at school?"

Without looking up, Mike shrugs stiffly.

"What is it? You not feeling well?"

"M'fine."

"Are you sure?"

"It's nothing," he grumbles. He shoves away his blankets and stands, looking more like his actual age than before. "I'm up now, see? You got what you wanted. I'm fine."

Harvey _hmm'_ _s_ noncommittally.

Throwing a glare backwards, Mike clomps down to the kitchen area and Harvey follows, but not before straightening the bed sheets a bit. He can't help it. It's freaking ingrained.

Before Mike's gradual insertion into his home life, Harvey never accumulated much in the line of groceries, but now, he always makes sure that the cupboards are well-stocked. While Mike slouches into his usual position at the breakfast bar, Harvey rummages around until he stumbles upon the lone box of Cheerios, the clear sachet scrunched up to protect the half-eaten cereal from going stale. Snatching two bowls from the middle shelf, he shakes out a generous serving and there's a clatter of cutlery as he collects a couple of spoons and rams the drawer shut with his hip.

He then swings open the refrigerator and pinches an unopened packet of raspberries, a carton of milk, and a bunch of bananas, detaching the least browned one and giving it a cautious sniff.

Apparently deeming the banana fit for consumption, he chops it up, unscrews the lid of the milk and pours a splash. Not too much, though. Mike hates when his cereal goes soggy and Christ, Harvey doesn't know anyone who takes do damn long to eat so little.

'There you go, kiddo. Cheerios and semi-fresh fruit,' he broadcasts, placing the bowl in front of him, a warm smile sweetening his voice. 'Sounds scrummy, right?'

Mike being Mike, he snubs the spoon in favour of dunking his hand into the milk and scooping out a handful of the evasive Cheerios himself, throwing back his head as he drops them one by one into his mouth. Absentmindedly swinging his legs and enjoying the crunch of his cereal as he munches, he amuses himself by squishing raspberries between his fingers and sniggering when he squeezes too hard and the berry bursts, watery juices dribbling down his wrists.

Harvey doesn't intervene. He's used to Mike's strange antics by now. Though he is more than a little concerned about his flip-flopping mentality. It's more volatile than usual.

Some of the food goes into his mouth; most of it never makes it. His aim is clumsy and Mike tends to hit his nose more often than not while his lips part and chomp at nothing, and besides, it's far more fun to clench his fist around a chunk of slippery banana than to actually _taste_ the funky banana that's certainly seen better days.

Mike licks his fingers and smacks his lips, grinning brightly as he squashes the banana and it shoots out onto the floor.

"Mike," Harvey cautions, "Quit playing with your food."

"No!" he proclaims, squashing another slimy piece and hurling it across the room in defiance.

"Michael," he growls. "Stop being difficult."

The boy widens his blue orbs guilelessly, but if anyone can sense the stirrings of revolt, it's Harvey and he doesn't trust the innocent expression for one second. "Not."

"Yes, you are. Stop it."

Bottom lip jutting out in a pout, Mike puckers his brows at the stern tone and Harvey can tell he's resisting the urge to lean back and cross his arms over his chest. But then, just like that, it's over and he picks up his spoon and continues eating.

Harvey casts a keen eye over his son. "Mike…" he approaches the subject with maximum tactfulness, "How do you feel about spending the day with Miss Connie?" Okay, so not as tactful as he thought.

The boy scrunches up his features in perplexity. "But today's Monday," he points out, "I only go to Miss Connie's on Wednesdays and Fridays."

"Yeah, I know. But maybe she'll have the twins over. You like Anna and Jack, right? Doesn't that sound like much more fun that your boring old AP classes?"

Mike's eyes tighten in suspicion.

"I know what you're trying to do," he comments dryly, "But sure. I'll go. Beats sitting in class, doodling on my binder and pretending to care about my grades."

" _Mike_ -"

"Kidding. Kidding. Yeesh." He rolls his eyes.

"Go get dressed," Harvey instructs once it's clear the boy isn't planning on eating any more, having went boneless against the back of the stool and begun rubbing his tummy with the most pitiful doe eyes in existence. "Your clothes are laid out on the bed. Also, unless you want me to personally wash your face myself, you'd better be darn thorough."

As expected, Mike's face screws up. "Message received."

As he hops down and shoots off down the hallway, Harvey yells, "And don't forget to brush your teeth! Don't make me do a breath-test!"

Harvey chuckles. He'd love to have seen Mike's face for _that_.

He heads to his own room to get dressed, and has returned to the hallway to fix his hair, in the process of squirting out a dollop of gel and rubbing it in, when Mike reappears.

"Harvey, can I have an apple?" he asks sweetly from behind him, nodding to the bright fruit bowl on the counter.

"What do you want an apple for?" he asks, confused. "You just had cereal."

He half-shrugs. "I'm hungry."

 _Seriously_?

"Fine. Fine," Harvey grumbles irritably, refraining from commenting that had he polished off all of his cereal like he was supposed to, he wouldn't be feeling peckish now. "We don't have time for this. Here," he drops the shiny fruit into his open palms and mentally double-checks he has everything they need, slinging Mike's messenger bag over his shoulder and debating for a moment before snatching Jellybean and stuffing him inside.

His son really doesn't seem to be in the most stable of mindsets today, flitting between the two, so he'd rather pack the comfort item on the off chance that he needs it later, as opposed to receiving a frenzied phone call in the afternoon pleading for him to come down, because Mike's crying for him. At least with Jellybean on hand, the likelihood of Mike requiring his presence to settle down will be significantly reduced.

Harvey is seconds away from heading out the door when he notices.

"Mike!" he exclaims, a groan simmering in the back of his throat as he resists glimpsing down at his watch to check the time, "Where are your shoes?"

"There," he says simply, pointing behind the couch.

"This is only one shoe," Harvey replies, picking it up. "What happened to the other one?"

Mike bites his lip and shuffles his feet.

"Great," he mutters, voice stuffed with sarcasm and one hand reaching up to massage his brow, "That's perfect. Now we're both going to be late."

Finally, after another fifteen minutes spent hopelessly searching, he herds Mike into the back of the black town car wearing two different coloured converse, one black, the other blue, and shares a sympathetic glance with Ray in the rear-view mirror. Exhausted and battling a raging headache, Harvey sinks back into the leather upholstery, tipping his head back and shutting his eyes as he blows out a long, quiet breath.

He feels as if he's been through hell and back and the day's only just getting started.

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Inside the glorified day-care centre (where most of the kids with Mike's condition go when they're finding things 'tough'), it is bright and colourful and completely and utterly terrible.

Mike _hates_ it here. With a passion.

But - as Harvey likes to remind him - it does have its benefits.

For instance, it provides an escape from the everyday hassles of life and gives him a 'safe space' to retreat inside him own mind, submit to his instincts, and vent his frustrations in a risk-free environment, away from prying eyes.

But still. If for no other reason than the fact that just by coming here, Mike is basically admitting he's finding it difficult to cope, or can't be trusted to act his age in public (ergo, amongst faculty and classmates alike at his 'normal' school), there is a special little corner reserved in Mike's mind appropriately entitled 'traumatising-things-to-be-locked-away-and-never-revisited' for this jolly hellhole.

"Why, hello there, Mike!" Miss Connie announces with a terrifyingly bright beam as she sees them come in, "How wonderful to see you today!" She gasps. "Ooh, and who is this little guy?" She looks down at the fluffy wolf dangling from Mike's right hand.

Suddenly shy, Mike ducks his head and hides behind Harvey as he crams his fingers into his mouth. Without even looking, Harvey reaches around and removes the sopping digits with a mild, "No fingers." But that doesn't deter Mike one bit. He simply sucks on his sleeve instead.

"This is Jellybean," Harvey explains smoothly for him, nudging Mike forward and giving him _The Look_. He's probably thinking he made the right call about sending him here today.

"Oh! _That_ Jellybean." If possible, her grin broadens even further. Mike shrinks back. "It's so great to meet you, Mr Jellybean! I've heard so much about you!" The teen discreetly rolls his eyes. It's fun when Harvey plays along. With her, it's just nauseating. "Why don't we put Jellybean up here on top of the cupboard so he doesn't get all dirty? That okay with you, Mike?"

Mike quickly shakes his head.

 _Oh, hell no._ No way is she getting her stinkin' paws on Jellybean.

"No?" Miss Connie frowns. "Oh. Well, if you're going to be painting today, you'll be sure to let me know beforehand, won't you, Mikey? That way, we can keep Mr. Jellybean out of harm's way. Don't worry, I'll take good care of him."

Mike sighs. This is not a fight he's destined to win. Clearly.

Especially knowing she'll be all but dragging him over to the arts and crafts later because _everyone_ must participate. Ugh.

"Keep an eye on him today," Harvey murmurs, as if Mike isn't _right there_ and can hear every word he's saying, "He's a little…fragile."

Mike scarcely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

"Don't worry, Harvey," she smiles reassuringly, "I know the drill."

Seemingly placated, Harvey turns back to him. "See you later, pup." He ruffles his hair. "Ray will be by later to pick you up."

"But Harvey-"

"No buts. It's already been arranged." All too soon, he is leaving and after a short, one-armed hug, Mike is left standing with multiple eyes on him, having no clue what to do with himself.

He wanders over to the library section and slides down with his back to the couch with a bulky book that should keep him occupied for the remainder of the day. So long as he remains quiet, makes a noticeable effort to partake in the odd activity, and does as he's told, Mike is typically given a wide berth and he doesn't see how today will be any different.

Well - that is until a certain boy with a well-known reputation as a trouble-maker plonks down beside him and Mike sighs good-naturally as his book is yanked out of his hands.

"Well, hello to you too, Pierce," he says wryly as the dark-haired boy blows wisps of hair out his eyes and makes himself comfortable.

"Hi, Mike," he grins, unapologetic, "Man, am I glad to see you. Wait," Pierces stops suddenly as he spots Jellybean nestled in the crook of his arm, "Are you _you_ you or careful-you-don't-eat-glue you?"

"Pretty sure I'm me me," Mike laughs. He hitches Jellybean up higher, closer to his face, and explains, "This is my safety net. Harvey was worried because I was a little…" his nose twitches, "erratic this morning. But I'm fine now," he tacks on hurriedly.

"Erratic?" Pierce quirks a brow. "Sounds exciting. That code for something?"

"If it is, you'll never find out what."

Pierce chuckles and grabs a book from the shelf to keep up appearances, returning Mike's and flicking his to a random page. Something about wildlife. Nice.

"So," Mike clucks his tongue, "What are you in for? And is it just me or do we sound like we're doing time in prison or something?"

"Might as well be," the other boy claims, "Don't know if you've noticed, but the twins are here. Damn twins," he mutters, then, with a bitter twist to his mouth, "You know how they suck the joy out of your soul like dimple-cheeked parasites. Sweet as freaking cherry pie when the 'rents are around, then little shits when they aren't. Man, I hate those guys."

Mike grimaces. "Don't remind me."

"And to answer your original question, I will counter with another question. Is it _wrong_ for a former cop to wanna watch a gory crime show?"

"Uh…this a trick question?"

"Maybe."

"In that case," he answers slowly, "I'm gonna go with no…?"

"Damn straight! The only thing I'm guilty of is appreciating our hardworking _NYPD_ for catching the bad guys and making our city's streets a safer place. And if I so happen to show that appreciation in the form of marathoning questionable, gruesome TV shows which may or may not be age appropriate, then so be it."

"Hang on. Your Mom sends you here as punishment?"

Pierce shrugs. "She feels I need to find better ways of channelling my appreciation."

"So…" Mike's brow's knit, "Not a punishment?"

"We're finger painting today, Mike."

"Point taken."

At that moment, Miss Connie's eyes scan their corner and they pretend to study their books with total absorption for a minute until she moves on. It's not that they're not allowed to talk. God, no. Socialising is all but shoved down their throats. It's more that, Mike would prefer to make it look like _he_ _'_ _s_ the good influence on Pierce, rather than that Pierce is the bad influence on _him_.

"Psst," Pierce pipes up after a few moments 'reading,' "So I was wondering. Do you wanna come over to my place tonight and play some video games? And not the pansy-ass, censored kind, before you ask. The banned-for-life, awesomely grisly, gunning down mutual enemies kind."

"Uh…" Mike's lips curve with a dash of humour. "Starting to understand your Mom's concerns..."

"No. Seriously, dude," he persists, abnormally earnest, "She's driving me crazy trying to protect me from every possible exposure to violence out there. No blood, no guts, no gore. What kind of life is that? It's a blasted nightmare." The irony is not lost on him. "And I'm sorry, but I just don't get it. It's not like I've lost all my memories from my adult career. I've seen it all before. Hell, what does she expect? I was _damn_ good at what I did. And I…" he twists his fingers and glances down, suddenly hesitant, though there's no need. Neither of them would ever ridicule each other about something that means so much to them. "I guess, I kind of miss it."

"I know what you mean," Mike agrees, "Harvey goes way overboard about everything, like, all the time. Especially in regards to my past. Sometimes I feel like I barely recognise him when he goes into that super-intense, overbearing mode. Not that I blame him or anything; I know he can't help it. It's just…he can be a little difficult to live with, you know? On the upside, he still lets me help out sometimes with cases. Strictly off the record, of course. So it doesn't feel like my brain's going to waste."

"Least you have that. I don't know how I'm going to be able to worm my way back into law enforcement with my Mom constantly on my back about 'expanding my horizons.' She doesn't seem to get that being a cop's what I live for. What I've _always_ lived for. I don't want to do anything else."

"Jeez. And I thought Harvey was bad."

"Oh, no. Don't get me wrong," Pierce hastens to assure, "Your Dad _is_ bad. He's _the worst_. And he's always giving my parents ideas, too. Oh, man. Remember that time we went to his firm and he didn't want you outta his sight but he had to go to some meeting so he left us with that Louis dude with the weird, burping cat? I didn't even know cats could burp!"

"Ugh!" Mike groans, throwing back his head, "Not the burping cat story! You promised you'd never bring that up again!"

"I promise a lot of things."

With an angry glower, he fires back, "No wonder your Mom doesn't trust you."

"Low blow, man. _Low blow_. You know, some of us don't have the puppy-dog eyes of death to convince everyone we're the next frickin' Jesus."

"Dude, you have _got_ to stop calling them that."

"I'll call them whatever the hell I want. Those bad boys could kill people, Mike. I'm callin' it. Someday, some unsuspecting, little old lady is gonna get her puree soup cans knocked over because of your bumbling klutziness and you'll be all like _ohmygoshI_ ' _msosorryIdidn_ ' _tseeyoutherebeholdmyuncannycuteness_ and then _BOOM_. Instant heart attack. Right there in the middle of the grocery store."

"You're such a dork," Mike laughs, punching his friend on the arm with a warm, lingering grin.

"Hey, I'm not the one with the eyes of a soon-to-be, accidental serial killer. Mark my words, Mike." He pats his shoulder and utters with mock-seriousness, "Heed my warning."

"Right. Sure. Being an ex-cop, though, bit of advice. Maybe you should lay off the constant referencing of terrible tragedies with that flippant attitude. Just saying."

"Yeah, yeah," he waves off, "You never answered my question. You coming or not?"

"Sorry, dude. Wish I could. Donna and Rachel are swinging by for baby-sitting duties thinly disguised as a movie night while my Dad's away at his car club thingy. I'd have invited you but it's gonna be totally lame and I wouldn't subject you or, hell, even the two-faced, snitching twins, to whatever horrors they've been plotting." Last time, he was put in Quiet-time for biting Donna after she'd come at him with hair bobbles and purple nail polish. He still maintains it was self-defence.

"Wise choice," Pierce nods approvingly, "Saves me the botheration of faking a stomach bug and bailing anyway."

Mike scoffs in disbelief, "Nice to know you have my back."

"What can I say? In this case, self-preservation trumps the supportive obligations of friendship."

"I'll remember that next time you wanna use me as a cover for breaking curfew."

But they can never really stay mad at each other and they're hooting with laughter not five minutes later.

"Miss Connnieeee!" the twins yell in unison. "Pierce and Mike are being really loud again!"

"Is something the matter, boys?" Miss Connie asks, glancing over, to which they quickly break apart and innocently reply, "No, Miss Connie!" before pushing their faces into their hands to stifle their sniggers.

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By the end of his day, Mike is totally worn out and he's surprisingly thankful by the time Ray rolls up, saving him from having to walk the reasonably short distance to the firm.

A heave of pain cuts into the fringes of his sockets, cramping around his temples and carving out a hollow pit between his brows as he settles back in the back seat. Mike kneads his eyes with a rough heel of his hand for the majority of the journey and narrowly draws in one - two - _three_ deep breathes. It swells behind his eyes, prickles on his taste buds, and shovels unease into the chasm of his stomach. He can't get away from it.

Once there, Mike just about manages a goodbye for Ray, who is taking the rest of the day off, as he flings his messenger bag over his back with a smack and staggers out of the limo in an ungainly manner he hopes won't concern the driver so much as to check in later with his father that everything's alright. Ray's great and all, but sometimes Mike wishes he weren't so kind _and_ observant. It can be pretty damn inconvenient.

"Say hello to your Dad for me."

"Will do." He shuts the door with a soft thud.

Mike struggles to snuff out the nausea that slithers out from the darkest depths of his gut and licks his insides with apprehension as he crosses into Pearson Hardman. After a quick greeting to the security men, he sneakily pops out a couple of pills from their plastic casing (Harvey would have a fit if he knew about his secret supply of painkillers), and dry swallows them, so that by the time he arrives at his father's floor, due to the wonders of the placebo effect, Mike should be feeling mildly okay. At least well enough to fool Harvey, anyway. Hopefully. If he plays his cards right.

"Oh, hey, Mike," Harold greets him cheerily once he steps off the elevator with a grin so large Mike marvels at how comfortably it sits on his face. "Your Dad's helping Louis prep for the deposition. Well, uh… he was supposed to be. They're arguing about Louis' tie again. And his," he squints a little, "...His wife? I didn't know he was married."

"He's not," Mike mutters, then sighs. "Thanks for the heads up, Harold. Figures those two knuckleheads would be constantly at each other's throats without me around to act as mediator."

"You should do the eye thing," adds Harold ever-so-helpfully. "The eye thing always works."

"Sorry. No can do, Harold," Mike says with mock-regret, "I only use my powers for evil." At the blonde-haired man's blank expression, he grumbles, "Oh, forget it."

He bypasses his old cubicle, seeing an unfamiliar figure, his replacement, he guesses, hunched over and scribbling away. Wrenching his gaze away, - realising too late that not only is he staring, but he's standing stationary and fidgeting uneasily in his casual clothes as well - Mike can't help but feel a sharp pang of longing. He's settled exceedingly well into his new life, but…

Well, there's still a but.

"Hello, Mike," Jessica says with a pleasant smile when he meets her in the hallway.

"Uh, h-hi, Jessica," he stutters, scratching his neck as the tips of his ears redden ever so slightly. Now that he's not working for her, he's learnt she's actually pretty nice. Though Mike doesn't think he'll ever get over his preliminary fear of her. She's one seriously intimidating woman.

"You'd better get in there before all hell breaks lose," she remarks with a hint of laughter, tipping her head toward Harvey's office. "Harvey is about one taunt away from shredding that goddamn tie. He could do with a timely interruption. Try not to egg either of them on, will you?"

"I'll see what I can do." And then he scurries off, eager to get away before he can make any more of a fool of himself.

When he happens upon the scene, Donna is covering her mouth with one hand to conceal her lively grin, eyes alive with mirth and glistening with unshed tears, Harvey is standing smugly with his hand shot up in the air, brandishing Louis' tie as the junior partner jumps with little furious grunts in many failed attempts to snatch it.

Mike immediately bends over and laughs himself breathless, thumping his chest for reprieve. "Al-alright, ch-children," he pushes out between giggles, "That's e-enough squabbling for one day."

"Mike!" Louis cries in something like relief, glimpsing at him pleadingly, before turning an irate glower on Harvey to show he has not let his guard down. "Can you tell your Dad to give me back my tie, and while he's at it, could he please stop lording his relationship with his personal tailor over me? It's stupid and childish, and moreover, it's common knowledge that my dress sense is far superior to his and-" he pauses for another intake of breath, but is interrupted before he can pick up where he left off.

"Yeah, Mike," Harvey chuckles, tossing a taunting smirk his way, "Tell him."

Ohhh, he can be such an asshole sometimes.

He grimaces. "Sorry, Louis. But I'd prefer not wade into this one, if you don't mind."

"Why the hell not?" he demands, outraged with no-one to back his corner.

"Hate to break it to you, but…Renee is kind of a fashion guru. And, well…" he jerks a thumb in Harvey's direction, "He's the one who buys my clothes. So…" Mike trails off, grimacing again.

With one final, triumphant laugh, Harvey throws the tie in the other man's face who almost hits himself in the eye trying to catch it. Stooping over to grab the long, silky fabric and clutch it to his chest, Louis huffs and with another seething glare, he storms off, causing the senior partner to snort.

Harvey turns to him with a grin. "Let's go before he goes tattling to Jessica about everyone ganging up on him again."

"I heard that!"

"Good!" he yells back, "You know how much I hate repeating myself!"

Mike rolls his eyes and tsks. "You are unbelievable."

"What?" Harvey chuckles, walking around his desk to collect a few things. He slips on his jacket and tucks his briefcase under his arm.

"Thought you were supposed to be a _good_ influence?"

"Yeah…and I am," he responds slowly with an uncomprehending shrug, "The best, actually. I was standing up for what's right. Speaking out against social injustice. That sort of thing."

"Ties don't count."

"Sure, they do." Taking hold of Mike's elbow, he is about to sweep out the door when suddenly Harvey spins around. "Wait a second…" His eyes narrow. "Where's your coat?" he quizzes, prompting Mike to groan, "I swear, I left you with a coat this morning."

"Harvey, it's like fifty degrees out. I don't need a coat."

"You're just getting over a cold. Of course you need a coat." He scrubs his forehead and sighs. "Good thing I always keep a spare in the office saying as _someone_ has a propensity for forgetting his in Ray's car."

"I don't forget it. I conveniently leave it behind."

"Not helping."

"Look, I've got a sweatshirt, don't I? Observe: this mysterious, toasty-warm garment comes equipped with this strange flap of cloth to protect its owner from the pits of our treacherous rainfall," he utters dramatically, before pulling the hood over his face and exclaiming indistinctly through the fabric, "Ta-da!"

"Do you see this, Donna? Do you see what I have to put up with?"

"Only the most awesome human being in the whole world," Mike chirps from under the tent of his hood, leaving Harvey no choice but to flick him on the head. "Ow!"

"How did I end up with such a goofball for a son?" he poses rhetorically. "Come on, get outta under there before you suffocate yourself."

"Such a drama queen."

"Less moaning, more clothing."

Mike bites back a snicker. "Was that your official slogan for kicking women out of bed in the morning?" he mocks, and they both hear Donna's chair scrape back as she starts cackling from her desk.

"Mike," Harvey begins darkly.

"Sorry, sorry," he raises his hands in surrender, "Won't happen again." His tone is sincere, but the tiny smirk he sends in Donna's direction belies his intentions, especially when her sniggering begins anew, almost breathless.

"G-guess you're not as great a role model as you…as you t-thought," Donna notes, only to attract the infamous, condemning Specter glare. That only causes her to laugh harder.

A phantom smile dusting his lips, his father says scornfully, "Alright, hotshot. Now can you do me a super-duper favour and put your coat on like a good little boy?" He taps his watch, deliberately patronising. "Tick tock. We don't have all day."

"Bleh," Mike pulls a face, "Way to be a total overkill, Harvey." He grumbles sourly under his breath even as he shrugs into the coat that Harvey holds open behind him, waiting for the youngster to shove his arms into the too-long sleeves. The father moves around and swiftly zips it up, before rolling up the drooping sleeves and instinctively dropping a kiss on his crown.

Harvey's smile blossoms into a wide grin. "There we go, kiddo," he ruffles his hair casually, "Easy peasy."

"Easy. Sure. I think you just annihilated my social life for the next decade or so."

"And look at that," his father suddenly tuts, licking the pad of his thumb and scrubbing his puppy's cheek. "You've got ink all over your face, too."

"Harvey!" Mike whines as he bats at his hand and pouts as the other man laughs. "Nope. I was wrong." He glares. " _Now_ you've done it. My social life has been officially shot to hell."

"Language," Harvey chastises, with only the faintest upturn of the mouth.

Flashing his tongue in response, Mike scowls and stomps off, ignoring Donna's squeals of laughter emanating from behind him.

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Back at the condo, Harvey fixes them a quick snack, - peanut butter and jelly sandwiches along with orange squash - since Donna and Rachel will be coming later with takeout for Mike and he can always grab something if he gets hungry.

For the most part, Mike only squashes his as flat as he can, thick goo oozing from the sides, which he doesn't need Harvey's wrinkled nose to know he finds disgusting, and refuses to eat more than a couple of bites. The smell alone is making him queasy.

Harvey tries to argue, but lets it go with thinned lips and sparsely buried disappointment, and takes the plate away before Mike can make any more of a mess.

"You know what I miss?" Matt comments afterwards, dusting off crumbs from his fingers and swivelling around slowly on his stool. "Beer. I could really go for a cold beer right around now."

Harvey rolls his eyes, casting a dull look over his shoulder as he wrings out a cloth and begins cleaning down the counter. "Sometimes I think you say these things just for the shock value."

"Ah, yes," he sardonically counters, "Because I'm the only teenager out there to ever want alcohol purely for the taste. How very shocking of me." Harvey tosses him another cynical look. "Okay, you got me. I don't miss the taste…much. Although a little Friday night buzz every now and then wouldn't go amiss."

"You spent two hours yesterday playing with bubble wrap. I don't think I'm emotionally prepared for this conversation."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to go full-on wild child on you." He steps down, feeling more than a little deflated. "I'm just saying."

Harvey nods hardly, lips compressing. "Okay," he answers tightly.

"Fine," snaps Mike in an identical tone.

"Fine."

His nostrils flare and without another word, Harvey stalks down into his bedroom, not quite slamming the door behind him, but the effect is the same. For a moment, Mike considers following him, but it's obvious he wants to be left alone.

So he doesn't.

Mike wants to be alone, too.

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When Harvey eventually emerges, now donning a tasteful black suit, Mike is curled up reading on the couch with Jellybean. His stomach is starting to hurt again and he's half-tempted to ask Harvey for a hot water bottle, but he changes his mind before the idea can fully develop. No need to stress him out, or God forbid, make him cancel his plans because _he's_ feeling a little under the weather.

 _Gah_. He shudders at the thought.

Besides, it's been ages since Harvey's gone out for the night and he _really_ needs this right now. He's been juggling at lot these days, between fatherhood and the ever-demanding firm, so a few hours to unwind would do him a world of good. Or, well, _Mike_ certainly thinks so.

Without even looking, Mike can _feel_ the guilt written in the older man's features as he walks past him to pour himself a mug of black coffee. That garners a fleeting smirk from the teenager.

Gone are the days when Harvey gulped down scotch like a man dying every time they ran into trouble.

Rather than address the issue, Mike opts to continue reading (in his defence, he's at an especially juicy part), which he does semi-successfully for about ten minutes until the tension becomes too much for even him to bear. So, inwardly crucifying himself, he kicks start the prior conversation in a strained effort to erase the silence which has fallen between the pair, "You always clam up whenever I bring up anything to do with my old life."

Harvey stills.

Mike's voice isn't accusing, intentionally so, as to not stir up any defensiveness in the older man - that would only make Harvey shut down before they've even begun, which would be the opposite of conducive for the frank discussion they so evidently need at the minute.

"You had to excuse yourself at dinner the other day because I brought up how Trevor and I used to double dare each other to jump off our neighbour's rooftop when we were kids," he continues, "Which, yeah, in hindsight, was a seriously stupid thing to do, but that was years ago. Plus, Trevor was the one who fractured his leg. Not me." Mike grits his teeth and fails to keep the frustration from seeping into his tone. "I don't get it."

"Well, what about you, huh?" Harvey retorts, "You cringe every time someone calls me your Dad. I don't exactly 'get it,' either."

Recognising that he has a point, Mike pauses, wets his lower lip, traps the soft meat between his teeth.

At that moment, both males release heavy sighs, look to each other in amusement, and their twin smiles barely have time to appear before they disappear again.

They sigh.

With a tired groan, Harvey plops down on the couch beside him and raises an arm for Mike to lay his head on his chest, drawing the small boy close. He instinctively starts teasing strands of his silky hair while the teen twists a handful of his father's tee and wraps it comfortingly around his hand.

"We suck," Mike mumbles.

He nods. "We kinda do."

"Adjustment period?"

"Nah," Harvey brushes off, "We had one of those. Several, actually. If you count when I was oblivious."

"Hm," he hums thoughtfully, "So we did."

After a few beats of silence, Harvey ventures, "What is it, Mike? Where am I going wrong?" He sounds faintly upset, "What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Mike, I mean it-"

"Honestly, Harvey," he interrupts seriously, and he can see how much the name wounds him, but he can't seem to stop using it, "You're doing everything you should be. And more. I dunno, maybe that's the problem."

A faint tint of annoyance colouring his tone, around Harvey's eyes crease with mystification as he questions, "What does that even mean?"

Holding his breath, Mike twists the soft material of his sock between his index finger and plays with his toes, then softly exhales, while Harvey waits patiently. Or with as much patience as he can muster, at any rate; Mike spies his finger tapping from the corner of his eye.

After several minutes, in a small, muted voice, he finally takes the plunge and explains, "You never used to keep a spare coat for me at the firm on the off-chance I got chilly, Harvey. Sometimes… sometimes I just wish things could go back to how they where." He shifts in place and his voice is blasé, but there's a trace of timidity simmering within the indifferent outer shell. He starts talking very fast. "You know, with you breathing down my neck about cases instead of homework and doing lawyerly stuff and sticking it to Louis and kicking people's butts together and-" he halts, shoulders sagging, "I miss it sometimes. That's all. It's stupid, but… sometimes I miss the days when you didn't give a crap if I owned a single coat at all."

Harvey wasn't supposed to notice. He wasn't supposed to care. It wasn't supposed to _matter_.

Every now and then, Mike tries to merge _that_ Harvey with _his_ Harvey and finds himself falling short somewhere. Everything has changed so much, at times it feels like he's not even dealing with the same man anymore.

"Do you really believe that?" Harvey queries, tone impassive, but brown eyes intent, "That I wouldn't have cared?" When Mike appears confused, he clarifies, "About not owning a coat. Because you're wrong, you know. I would have _acted_ like I didn't care, Mike, but I would have. Believe me…I would. It was all just an act." He frowns, brows folding into something vaguely disapproving. "I thought you knew that?"

Mike stares down at his lap where he's unconsciously clutched onto the hem of Harvey's shirt again and chews on the inside of his cheek. "I kind of did."

"Did?" Harvey arches a brow, before decisively shaking his head, "You know what? Never mind. We can talk about this later. You're moments away from conking out anyway."

"Am not," he sulks.

Harvey smirks. "We'll see."

But now that he's said it, Mike realises that his words aren't too far off the mark. He _is_ tired.

Not caring about proving Harvey right (he's right far too often to get annoyed _every_ time), Mike snuggles closer, resting his ear above his heart, and vacillates for a split second, thumb hovering at his mouth, before parting his lips and delving into the warm depth. It's not like the childish habit bothers Harvey; he just resumes playing with his hair.

"We can't ever go back to before, Mike," he murmurs after several moments.

"I know."

"And you're going to wear your coat to school tomorrow if you wanna have a shot of going to the movies this weekend with your friends."

"I know."

"And I threaten you because I care."

"Yeah," Mike offers up a small smile, "I know that too."

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_Thank-you very much for reading. Please let me know what you think. I love hearing from you all._


	12. Always Your Dad

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**CHAPTER ELEVEN:**

Always Your Dad

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**A/N:** It is with mixed feelings that I confirm this is 'technically' the last chapter. Though, fear not, I do have a few extra things I might like to expand on and I would be entirely willing to pop in some one-shots down the line, per anyone's request, if there's something specific you'd like to see. Other than that, there is no set plan for the fic to continue. The main story arc has been written, so for that reason alone, I will mark Can't Go Back as complete. However, don't panic if you do have a prompt that you'd like filled. I have not ruled out the possibility of future updates.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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_The Little Health Scare:_

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When Mike wakes up, Harvey's already left.

Through the haze and lasting disorientation, he recognises the room instantly. Harvey must have carried Mike down…down to his own bed? Shit, he must have really been out of it.

God, he hopes he didn't cry, and, however inadvertently, make Harvey feel rotten about going. Ruin his night before it even started. Harvey says it's like Mike has this sixth sense and somehow always _knows_ whenever he's leaving. Even sound asleep. It's a little eerie, but mostly it's just embarrassing, because Mike shouldn't be held responsible for his behaviour when he's 'sleeping like a baby,' as Harvey puts it, and yet he is.

Mike tries not to feel too disheartened by his father's desertion (because he didn't _really_ desert him, he knows that), but it's hard. His stomach is in worse shape than ever, as if something inside him is trying to claw its way out, and he feels dreadful.

His head swims as he stands up, and Mike grabs Harvey's tee and pulls it on before he can reconsider it. He slinks down the hall into the living area where he can already hear the two ladies' laughter. _This_ _'ll be fun_ , he thinks.

There are half-empty glasses of wine sitting out alongside a small pizza box, and the end of credits are rolling in the background. Donna is in the in the throes of painting Rachel's toenails a very pale purple (or lavender as he's been corrected on many occasions), whose feet are resting snugly on top of the other woman's knees.

Man, how long was he asleep?

"Hi there, sleepyhead," Rachel grins hugely, inclining her head backwards while her hair tumbles down the side of the couch, peering up at him upside down, "We saved you some stuffed crust pizza. _Your favourite_ _…"_ she sing-songs and waggles her brows.

But as enticing as her voice may be, her suggestion is certainly not. If he ate anything now, Mike is positive it would just come right back up. He is _not_ taking that gamble. Not when it means a short phone call straight to Harvey.

And then he'd come home and there'd be all this fussing and babying and it would all be for nothing. _No way_ is he letting that happen.

"No, thanks," he politely declines and rubs the sleep from his eyes, "I'm not hungry."

"Really? Your Dad said you didn't have much."

"Rach," Mike says in an inflexible, end-of-conversation tone, "I'm good."

Lips delicately pursed, Rachel nods in quiet suspicion. "Alright…you can always have it later."

"Sure."

Um…how about _not ever_?

"Come on," Donna interrupts their sort of staring match, lifting the blanket draped lazily over her waist and patting the space beside her, "Sit."

Mike rolls his eyes at her actions. "I'm not a dog, Donna."

"That's right," she acknowledges, unblinking, "You're a puppy."

He exhales sharply. "I can't win, can I? Harvey's influence stretches too far." Mike's tone is much too petulant for his liking, so he makes a very pointed effort not to pout, grinding his teeth together, which admittedly isn't the greatest alternative.

"Yeah, okay, huffy puppy." The red-head wriggles impatiently. "Get in."

He carefully sits down and Donna wastes no time tucking the blanket around him. He lets her fuss, even going to fetch him a juice-box, and swallows with reservation, testing his stomach's reaction in between every sip, fenced in by their watchful stares. But whatever. They'll go back to their girl's night and leave him be soon enough.

"So whaddya wanna watch?" Donna puts forward as she kneels in front of the expansive flat screen TV and shuffles through a large stack of kid's movies in her hands, "Harvey says you've only got three more re-runs of Avengers before you hit fifty and then it's barred for life."

"He was joking."

Donna awards him her best pitying look. "Yes…" she slowly agrees, "But _I_ _'m_ not."

"Har, har, har," Mike sarcastically chuckles, while subtly scooting farther away from the pair. It'll be easier to act normal from a greater distance, however small the difference. "I'll have the _Avengers_ , please."

"Okay, then..," she purses her lips and shakes her head slightly, "But use your last two views wisely."

He frowns. "As if you'll know."

"I'm Donna. Of course I'll know."

But she sticks on the movie with no additional complaints, and as he lays down on a squashy cushion, as predicted, Rachel and Donna recommence gossiping in low, giddy whispers. He thinks he picks out Harvey's name the occasional time or two in the hushed racket, but takes no notice. He doesn't have the energy to care at this point.

He's hot, he's grumpy, and he feels like crap.

As the film drags on, Mike lowers his chin and steals clipped, aching gasps, muffled against his arm, as he angles his hip in a tentative position, trying to alleviate the immense pain unfurling and travelling in searing ripples up his torso. The heat fans out across his prickly skin like an inflamed rash. Soon, his hair is melted to his forehead while his breaths become more and more laboured, and Mike claws at the opening of his tee and flaps the fabric to release some of the blistering heat that ravages his body. It's getting harder and harder to stay quiet and not attract any unwanted attention to himself.

Acid blazes the interior of his throat and his muscles spasm and contract, but thankfully nothing makes it past his mouth. Although dry heaving isn't particularly enjoyable, either.

He lies charily breathing.

_In._

_Out._

It feels like too much, yet it's never enough.

"You okay, honey?" Donna asks then, watching him with undisguised worry. He tries not to look too much like he's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "You look a bit pale."

"Yeah, just tired," Mike shrugs, swallowing back the sour spittle that fizzes forward in his mouth, "Think I'm gonna turn in early."

"You sure?" She doesn't sound convinced. "You want me to call your Dad? You still haven't eaten anything. You might be coming down with something."

"Donna, honestly, everything's fine. There's no reason to ruin his night."

"You wouldn't be ru-"

"Don't worry about it," he cuts in, before she can launch into _that_ particular discussion, "I'm gonna head to bed."

Then he flees before either can scrutinise him too closely.

"There is definitely something up with that kid," he hears Donna mutter as he walks away. (Runs, really. With his back facing them. Wincing all the while.)

In the shadows of the hallway, he pauses to catch his breath.

"I know, right?" Rachel whispers in response. "He didn't even bother with his goodnight routine. It was like he couldn't get out of here fast enough." There's a pause and he can picture her nibbling on her lip like she always does when she's nervous. "What are you gonna do? Call Harvey?"

"I'm not sure what to tell him exactly, other than that his kid's acting weird, but yeah. Better safe than sorry."

"Amen to that."

Withholding a sigh that'll give him away, Mike pushes away from the wall and stumbles as noiselessly as possible down to his room, before wrenching off his borrowed tee and chucking the sweat-soaked cotton in the hamper. He trudges over to his bed and collapses on his springy mattress, instantly regretting the decision when the excruciating sensations flare up furiously again and shoot up his spine. He face-plants against his pillow with a moan, sinking into the swollen sponge, and burrows under a river of blankets. Suddenly, he's terribly cold.

His teeth are clattering.

Pressing a hand against his tender stomach and ripping it away with a hiss, Mike groans against the all-encompassing pain and gropes around the rumpled sheets until his fingers touch upon a soft, fuzzy cloth. Mike drapes the dearly loved blanket over the compact ball his body has found itself in and prods the fabric with his nose, nuzzling his face into the material and inhaling whiffs of a crisp, earthy musk.

It smells like his Dadd- Mike cuts himself off before he can finish the thought.

He bites his lip to keep from whimpering, feeling precariously close to tears at the thought of his surrogate father. Mike could call him, _should_ call him, he supposes, but as much as he wishes Harvey were here to wrap him up in a big cuddle, he can't bring himself to swallow his pride and surrender his independence just like that. Although he has come a long way since those initial weeks of his new condition where he could scarcely wrap his mind around any semblance of affection displayed by the man, there are times when Mike still struggles to let Harvey in.

In spite of everything, - every peck on the forehead, every anxious glance, every tiny sacrifice. Hell, even the legal papers Harvey so readily signed even though part of Mike wondered if he was signing away his life, - Mike still possesses a smidgen of hesitation, likely the same hesitation which prevents him from truly recognizing Harvey as his Dad.

Much as he tries to trick himself into believing otherwise, there's this _godforsaken part_ that makes Mike feel silly and weak. The part that doesn't know better than to think himself a nuisance. A stubborn part that'll deal with it, whatever it may be, on his own, completely by himself, because that's how it's always been and that's how it will always be.

So, no. He'd really rather not right now.

_Is that so wrong?_

It certainly doesn't feel right.

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* * *

"Wow," Donna exclaims when she opens the door to let him in. Rachel left only moments before and she'd assumed she'd forgotten something and had come to retrieve it. "Didn't expect you to get here so soon."

"He still in his room?" Harvey asks, brushing past her.

"Uh…yeah. I think so. I haven't checked on him yet." Her brows gather at Harvey's expression. "Why? Should I have?"

"I called his cell. Unless he's fallen asleep, which I doubt, then…" Harvey tightens his jaw, exhales brusquely through his nose, "I don't know…I can't shake this feeling something's not right." He was on his way home, anyway, when Donna rang. Call him overprotective, but his tendency to over-fret comes in handy every now and then.

But in all his wildest imaginations, nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the young father for what awaits him.

He wrenches open the door only to discover his baby boy's cheeks are flushed a deep, fiery red, stained with tears, while his skin is coated in sweat, shaking fiercely on the bed. A touch of glassiness enters his lethargic gaze, a tell-tale sign of fever.

" _Mike_ ," he exclaims, stricken, and hears a horrified gasp behind him.

"H'vey," his cracking voice slices through the air and pierces Harvey's heart. Between sluggish sobs, he writhes miserably and weakly reaches out, before his arm flops to the ground and he croaks, "H-hurts, H'vey."

"What is it, puppy? Tell Daddy what hurts." The smouldering heat which radiates from his pasty, clammy flesh scares the honest-to-God shit out of Harvey. His choice of words don't even register; they just topple out. As Harvey hurriedly kneels beside him, Mike drowsily burrows his head in his father's abdomen while quiet sobs rack his trembling frame, flinching at every involuntary movement.

"M-my s-stomach," he whimpers.

"Where, exactly?"

"R-r-right s-side." Harvey delicately touches the inflamed area and yanks his hand away as if he's been burned when Mike flails to get away.

"Easy," he instructs, weaving an arm around the youngster's shoulder to hold him steady while his head lolls on his lap. "I'm sorry, I was only checking."

Mike cries harder.

Desperate to console him, Harvey cards feather-like fingers through his damp hair and fights the urge to heave at the amount of pain his son is so obviously in. He feels so goddamn useless.

"I've called 911. They're on their way," Donna tearfully announces from the doorway, but Harvey can only nod curtly in response. His eyes never leave his puppy's face.

"Daddy, _please_ ," Mike hiccups, and Harvey jolts in surprise, eyes widening in shock, "M-make it stop."

"Shhhh." He strokes his cheek, smoothing away any hot, spilled tears. "You're doing great, puppy. It's okay. Some lovely folk are coming as we speak to take the pain away. You'll feel better real soon, I promise," Harvey coos, unable to entertain the idea of his appendix bursting before help arrives, because that's what the problem seems to be. _Has_ to be. Harvey can't - or perhaps won't - fathom what else could be causing him such agony. At least appendicitis is curable. And rarely fatal.

All the same, as fresh tears brim over and Mike clenches his jaw to smother a cry, Harvey's tempted to start crying himself.

He shushes and sings and murmurs the gentlest words of comfort, but it doesn't seem to have any effect in the least. Twenty minutes in and his mouth is parched and his voice is hoarse, but Harvey doesn't stop until the medics turn up, sharing a bleak look that does nothing to ease his fears, before squatting down and checking Mike's vital signs.

They carefully hoist the boy onto a stretcher and wheel him into the elevator. The button for the bottom floor is pushed and Harvey joggles his leg impatiently, biting down the urge to shout _, just hurry the hell up,_ before finally, they reach that pivotal point where his child is loaded into the ambulance.

Harvey mutely watches on and then dazedly climbs in behind, feeling like he's running on autopilot.

"I'll meet you there," Donna's voice floats from somewhere nearby, but he's too out of it to pay the noise much heed.

At the ER, Harvey is bombarded with questions, and answers as best he can in a strangled voice, totally unlike his own. He feels totally detached from that uneven, alien sound. As if it's coming from somewhere far off in the distance, rather than his own mouth. "He's running a high fever and was complaining about sharp pains in his lower right side…No, he's barely eaten all day, as far as I'm aware. His aunt called me when she suspected something was wrong…Yes, I understand."

But he didn't.

As the doctor gently applies pressure along Mike's abdomen, drawing back when he flinches and the distressing moans break off with a jagged hiss that makes Harvey's stomach drop, it occurs to Harvey that he's clothed, and has only ever been clothed, in his pyjama bottoms and boxers.

He carries on soothing Mike in high, cloying tones, and wiping away his tears as the kid clings onto his tie with an ever-tightening grip, the tendons in his arm protruding with the strain. The doctor whose name Harvey never caught finishes his assessment.

"I'm going to put a rush order on a CT scan. I suspect we're dealing with appendicitis, but we need to make certain as there are other conditions which can mimic similar symptoms. The CT will offer more insight into what's going on, but until then, I'm afraid you'll just have to sit tight."

And the doctor's expression is truly apologetic, mouth tucked downwards.

"Here," he passes Harvey a plain, white gown, "You'll need this."

"Can't you give him anything for the pain?" He's flustered because he's so close to begging and Harvey hates being in such a position that needs to beg anyone, ever.

"Unfortunately not, Mr. Specter," the man - Dr. Rogers, he realises, as his name-tag catches the light - answers gently, the smoothest of voices reserved for the most frantic of patients, "Any form of pain relief would drastically increase the risk of the appendix rupturing, so it's best to stave off using any medication for now. We can, however, start your son on a course of antibiotics. His fever is still too high and it's imperative that we focus on bringing that down before any surgery can be performed. The nurse should be by in a few minutes to draw some blood and get Michael started on those antibiotics."

Then he leaves and Harvey helps strip Mike of the rest of his clothes and slip on the gown, which falls way past his knees, which suddenly seem much too bony.

All of a sudden, it hits home just how fragile and _young_ Mike is, and Harvey has to turn away before his son can read the horror which cripples his features and twists them into someone unrecognisable; someone with what feels like a permanent expression of terror. He seizes a deep, nervous breath and allows himself these next 30 seconds, - only these 30 seconds, the briefest of lapses - to break down before reattaching his game face. He balls his hands into fists to conceal the trembling, gnashes together his teeth, and even liberates a few stray tears which Harvey swiftly daubs with the back of his wrist.

Then his time is up.

And Harvey's sole focus is making sure Mike feels relatively comfortable, as impossible a feat as that is. After that, everything becomes one long blur of nail-biting and waiting as blood is taken, the IV is hooked up, a nurse arrives from radiology and the CT scan is procured, with Mike torn away from him for _thirty-six whole minutes_ as Harvey paces for a bit, then darts to the bathroom for a quick puke.

While he waits, his knee bounces, his muscles tic, and he is uncontrollably agitated as his mind automatically fears for the worst. As an attorney, Harvey despises people who jump to the wrong conclusions minus any specifics, but here, he is capable of little else. In most cases, appendicitis is not life-threatening, he knows (provided that it is diagnosed early), but in that instant he doesn't dare to dream everything will be alright. It feels like he's chancing fate enough as it is.

Feeling utterly helpless, Harvey holds Mike's hand on his return, cold in his where once it burned, and smoothes his hair back while every terse gasp and feeble whimper slowly corrodes his self-control, heart lurching and quickening at each pained sound, thrashing so hard he feels like Mike's suffering alone might tear him apart; like his heart is stabbing him from the inside.

As can only be expected, Mike's breaths start to come in rattling, frightened pants, eyes glazed over in all-too-clear suffering, and Harvey digs up his softest smile (if a touch wan), leans in close, and plants a light kiss on his forehead as he says lowly, "It's alright, puppy. Everything's going to be just fine. You've got nothing to worry about, okay? I won't let anything happen to you," he pats his shoulder and rubs the area with a calming thumb, "Not ever."

Mike pinches his eyes shut, latching on to that tiny glimmer of hope, as he gives a tense nod and warily exhales, not wanting to aggravate his side. And in spite of everything, Harvey can't help but be fiercely proud of this silent show of strength.

He squeezes his hand in reassurance when Dr. Rogers strides back into the room with thoughtful, narrowed features and a dauntingly final clipboard, only to declare that the OR is being prepped and that the anaesthesiologist will be in shortly to administer the anaesthesia. There was probably more, but Harvey stopped listening after the confirmation that, yes, his son _will_ be undergoing traditional, open surgery.

His little boy will be going under the knife and he's going to have to do it all alone.

For a second, Harvey's game face wavers, but he wills himself not to fall apart. Other than his throat closing over, stinging vigorously with the threat of tears, he feels bizarrely numb.

Finally, it is time for him to say goodbye and as Mike's lids droop and flutter, glistening beads sticking to his lashes, Harvey's delicate composure shatters and he stands frozen, choking back a sob while a faceless nurse pries his hands away, watching as they drag his son farther and farther away until he's completely out of sight. Overpowering every other thought in his mind.

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* * *

_They immerse him in ice_

_Ears subdued with a shock of water, rushing to his mouth,_

_Cold. So cold._

Harvey! Harvey!

_He gags, he splutters, he retches up watery vomit_

_Howls for everything he's worth until his tear-ducts shrivel up into nothing._

_They never listen._

\- I hear you -

_The gleam of metal. Silver plunging into white._

_Then red. Blazing like a fire in the harshest winter._

_Red and white Red and white_

Drip, drip, drip,

_Ashen skin and hacked flesh, a tiny boy, drowning in blood and shivers_

_They-_

HARVEY!

_Screams of anguish._

Won't you save me?

\- I-I'm _trying_ -

_Until_

_Until-_

_Pleas are beyond him._

_Dark skies. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars. Too dense, too murky. The darkness envelops them completely._

_Then rain. Rain too heavy. Each drop pounds on his battered torso, soaking into bone, saturating tissue_

_Ultramarine eyes now a glassy lake. Encrusted with ice, devoid of light._

_So still…_

_So peaceful._

_A lie so great it's painful._

\- I'm here now, I'm coming -

_Sprinting, diving, dropping to the ground_

_Gathering the limp child in his arms_

_Hugging tight._

\- Please don't leave me -

_He pats frozen cheeks,_

_shakes and shakes and shakes_

_Empty eyes roll backwards. No matter how much he wills him to, his son won't-_

_-will never-_

_Wake._

Up.

Harvey bolts upright, breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

Donna jerks her head towards him in alarm. "Hey, are you alright?" She catches his arm.

"Yeah," he exhales raggedly, wincing as his neck protests after maintaining such an uncomfortable posture for so long. Harvey rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and mutters, "I can't believe I fell asleep."

"I can," Donna states wryly, "You were exhausted. I'm surprised you didn't wear a hole through the floor with all of your pacing."

He ignores that.

"Any news?"

She hesitates at the timorous expression on his face, before shaking her head. "Nothing." Before she can stop herself, Donna covers his hand with her own and holds on tight. "I'm sorry, Harvey."

In that instant, Harvey is powerless to the panic which hijacks his body at the lack of information on how Mike's doing. Surely anything would be better than this…this vast space to ponder, leaving his mind free to pore over the possibilities? Surely _some_ information, encouraging or not, would be easier to work with. He's a lawyer. On way or another, he needs proof. He needs to know his son's going to be okay. But without any concrete evidence, there is jackshit stopping him from filling in the gaps of his knowledge and twisting the facts to suit his purpose.

And right now his purpose is clearly to make himself sick to his stomach with worry.

Harvey can't quite bring himself to trust his son is alright, not until Mike is within hugging distance and he can pull him into his arms. Grasp him tightly. Never let go.

He needs a distraction. Something to keep his mind from…Harvey winces.

Yeah, anything but that. Not a coffee run, though. He's jittery enough as it is.

"Where's Jellybean?" he asks abruptly.

Donna looks taken aback. "Jellybean?"

"Yes. Do you have him?"

"He's right here…" she frowns, handing him over, and Harvey instantly clasps the stuffed animal to his chest with a gasp that sounds like a sob, blocking out the sickening scenarios traipsing through his usually level-headed mind, and the blustery, crushing anxiety, and his friend's pitying look.

It's not Mike, but it will have to do.

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* * *

Mike opens his eyes to the clacking of keys.

He follows the sound to find Harvey bent over his laptop on a couch in the far side of the room, hair dishevelled and almost black in the half-light, face illuminated by a bluish, weak glow. As he watches (eyes slit, groggy, giving his eyes a second to adjust to the dull light), he yawns and stretches a bit, squinting at the screen.

It feels early. Very early.

Or is it very late?

There's a blanket that's slithered to the floor and lies in a fuzzy bunch, Jellybean has been slotted under the covers beside him, and his thumb hosts a trail of saliva that leads down to his chest. Mike suppresses a groan. Even when he's out cold, he still sucks his thumb! Wonderful.

Harvey still hasn't noticed that he's regained consciousness, so he decides to take action, hating to be ignored by him, however unintentionally.

"Hi, Dad," he croaks. His voice is drowned out by his huskiness, but Harvey hears it crystal clearly, head jerking around as he snaps the laptop shut and relocates beside him.

"Hey, buddy," he says softly. "How are we feeling?"

Mike deliberates.

His mouth feels dry and rough like sandpaper, his teeth are gritty and metallic, and there's this acute, pounding ache coming from down deep in the earth of his abdomen.

"Can I say shit?"

"Go for it."

"Like shit, then."

He tries to move and immediately winces.

"Easy," Harvey intercepts, "You're going to be sore for a while." He turns to the small sink and refills a pitcher with cold water, holding it steady as Mike cautiously sips through a plastic straw and prays his stomach won't rebel as it did before the surgery.

That's when he notices these thin, opaque tubes winding out from underneath his hospital gown and immediately shoots up. Scrambling back. Not caring about the pain.

"Mike, puppy, calm down," Harvey exclaims in alarm, grabbing his arm before he can move any further, "It's to drain the fluids. Prevent infection."

Mike gives a strained laugh. "Because that doesn't sound scary at all."

"It's not." But his Dad's expression, much as he tries not to show it, says otherwise. "And lie back down," he scolds, taking hold of the boy's shoulders and pushing. "You're going to rip out your IV if you keep wriggling around like this." He fixes his blankets around him and flattens Mike's hair with his palm.

"How much longer do I have to stay here?" Mike asks, unable to prevent his aversion from trickling into his facial muscles or tone. He hates hospitals. He hates the antiseptic twang to everything, he hates the poor wifi connection and the constant monitoring and their cardboard food and the apathetic staff. But, _most of all_ , he hates, hates, hates the vulgar, itchy hospital gown he's been shoved into. It has a green teddy bear pattern on it. _Teddy bears._ Nothing screams childishness like teddy bears.

Hopefully he'll have some normal clothes to wear soon.

"Two weeks. Give or take a day or two," Harvey divulges, sounding none too happy about the arrangement himself. "You'll be recovering for much longer at home. It'll be a while before you can go back to school. Doctor's orders."

"Awww," he moans. Under the right set of circumstances, that news would be awesome - but _now_?

Now, he's horror-stricken. What's he supposed to do for a _month or so_ at home? With Harvey mollycoddling at every turn?

He blanches. _Oh, God…_

"It won't be so bad-" he almost snorts "-I'll have you know," Harvey remarks, eyes twinkling, "I make an excellent nurse."

Mike bursts out laughing at the thought of Harvey in a nurse's costume, only to cut short with a low whine as a sharp pain branches out from his torso and twists around his spine. Harvey opens his mouth, but Mike quickly interjects before he can get a word in, "It's fine, Dad. Honest. Didn't expect it, that's all."

His expression is dubious, but Harvey doesn't cross-examine him like he usually would.

It makes Mike worry for _him_. This emergency surgery must have really taken it's toll. He might _feel_ like shit, but Harvey _looks_ like shit and he might feel like it, too.

Then another thought occurs to Mike.

Shouldn't Harvey have been sleeping? Or at least _trying_ to?

He wants to ask, find out what has him up working instead of resting, but something in his Dad's eyes stops him. Something that makes him think he doesn't really wanna know.

Mike feels the tug in his stitches and remarks, "On the bright side, I'll always have a commemorative scar. That's pretty cool."

He was aiming for comic relief, maybe perk him up a bit, but Harvey only looks mildly ill.

"Yeah," he says gruffly, "Sure."

Mike frowns.

After Harvey helps him sit up - per his insistence - and wedges another pillow behind him (both warming him and making him roll his eyes), Mike sips more icy water and changes the subject once more. "Where's Donna?"

If Donna were here, she'd know what to say to cheer Dad up.

Harvey balances on the edge of the bed and smiles. Or tries to. "She had to go. She wanted to stay, but I told her to get some sleep. She'll be back in a few hours."

"What time is it?"

"After five."

He's not surprised. "A.m.?"

"Yeah. You haven't been out long."

 _Then why do you look like you've just been through the wringer?_ Pushing his tongue into his back teeth, Mike twists his lips and mutters bleakly, "Long enough."

"Yeah," Harvey agrees, voice quiet, "Long enough."

Then it's like he can't hold back any longer and Harvey deftly draws him into his arms, running his hands up and down his back and patting gently. All of a sudden, Mike's eyes burn.

He has to stop doing this. Creating problems by ignoring problems, letting them fester and mature, letting them drag him - _them_ \- under. He has to stop…this.

"M'sorry," he mumbles, top lip quivering as he turns to hide in Harvey's chest, raking his fingers across his rough blanket and tugging the heavy cloth closer.

Harvey is confused.

"What are you apologising for?"

Mike sniffs loudly. There's a swish of spit as he moistens his lips, voice faltering and skirting around a ragged breath of discomfort.

"For not calling you Dad sooner," he admits. "And…for not telling you I wasn't feeling well."

"Hmm," Harvey murmurs, chin rubbing against his head, "Yes. This pattern of hiding things…important things…we'll be having words about that later. But Mike," he peeps up and finds his forehead has shifted into a fraction of a frown, "You don't have to call me Dad. That's no reason to feel guilty."

"Why not? Everyone else does."

 _Donna…Louis…Rachel…Ray…Pierce…_ heck, even Harold. They all do.

Everyone but him - the voice that matters most.

"Mike…" There's an edge of frustration to his voice, mixed with something else... Fondness? "If you never felt comfortable with that term, I would have been fine with it." That's a barefaced lie, so Harvey quickly glosses over it to reassure, "I'm very happy now that you are, or, well, seem to be, but it's okay to take your time and let everything sink in. I will _never_ begrudge you for going at your own pace, you hear me? I don't mind at all."

This, in any event, is the truth - if downplayed a bit. In reality, Harvey isn't 'happy'; he is elated beyond belief. Exultation and relief warring for control, his joy tainted only by the fear of their newfound familiarity failing to survive past Mike's stint in the hospital.

What if he is demoted back to 'Harvey'? What if Mike's insecurities return and they're pushed right back to square one?

Harvey has to ask himself these questions. He has to prepare himself for the possibility that this next fortnight might be the only time Mike will ever genuinely consider him his Dad. He needs to quell the disappointment before it can become real.

The kid plays with Harvey's fingers. That's never a good sign.

"I still _feel_ guilty."

"Don't be," Harvey tells him, "I'm not asking you to forget your old life, Mike. Of course not. But I don't want you living in your memories, either. I want you to be happy _here_."

Mike bites his lip, continues staring down at Harvey's fingers, twists them gently.

"Me, too," he mumbles and cuddles closer.

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* * *

It isn't until the next day that Harvey gets his first glimpse into what the next two weeks will _actually_ be like.

To be fair, he probably should have seen it coming.

Instead of a grouchy, fed-up, but reasonably well-adjusted Mike with the odd slip, he gets an easily amused, totally innocent Mike who half-sits in his lap, grinning as he lifts his fluffy wolf's leg and glides a fat stump of a paw over the familiar bumps and grooves of his Dad's face.

Voice low and fond as he distractedly rubs a thumb on the boy's knee, Harvey asks, "What's Jellybean doing now?"

Mike thinks for a moment, brows crinkled and tongue poking his cheek in contemplation, before he declares, "He eating your hair!"

Harvey faux-gasps. " _My_ hair? Why? Is it yummy?"

"Uh-huh." The youngster pushes the stuffed animal against the nape of Harvey's neck and makes happy, munching sounds, before giggling adorably.

"Would Jellybean not like to eat Mike's hair?"

"Nuh-uh!" Mike beams. "Only yours!"

"Well," Harvey makes a pleased sound in the base of his throat, "that's because my hair is yummiest."

Now moving on to fiddling with a button on his shirt, Mike's chortles are interrupted by a wide, ear-popping yawn and he pauses to knuckle his nose, Jellybean falling to one side.

'I think it's beddy-byes for the sleepy puppy,' Harvey softly utters, and Mike lies back and burrows into his chest, snaking an arm around his furry chum. It may have seemed strange for a young teen to be seen snuggling a stuffed toy and cuddling up to their Dad so shamelessly, but Harvey couldn't care less about his reputation and Mike is too tired to notice any curious stares.

And it would have been fine if it weren't for the fact that that's not the only instance when Mike's behaviour may warrant scrutiny from visitors and staff alike.

It's not so bad for the doctors and nurses who have access to his chart and therefore medical history. As for everyone else, Harvey has to deal with more than a few baffled looks and the occasional rude remark or scathing sneer.

He tries not let it bother him, but he wants nothing more than to shield Mike from their collective ignorance. In his current state, he wants to protect him from everything.

Being in this strange environment drives every child-like instinct Mike boasts to the surface, and while Harvey expected a bit of a spike in the childish mannerisms after their previous overnight stay in hospital, he honestly can't say he expected how _young_ Mike would go.

Or for how long.

The drugs don't do them any favours either - no, that's a lie. Harvey is very grateful to the drugs if it means Mike's not in pain.

But, boy, is it hard sometimes.

When he accidentally hits himself while banging a toy Ferrari against the metal border of his bed in a fit of boredom (that is, after rolling his toy up and down the length of Harvey's arm for twenty minutes first. With the inclusion of fitting sound-effects, naturally), Mike is momentarily stunned, before a wretched hitching of his breath leads to an onslaught of heartbreaking sniffles as his infinite blue orbs swim with instant-tears.

Mike, himself, is painfully aware of how unusual he's acting - even for him - and so Harvey strives not to make a big deal out of anything, regardless of his own worry.

So he presses soft lips against the boy's forehead and sympathetically croons, "That's a mean car, isn't it? Bad, bad car." The reprimand elicits a moment of hoarse giggles as Mike waits to see what Harvey does next. "Here, give it to me. I'll go put it in the naughty corner, how's that? That'll teach him not to hit poor, innocent puppies."

Harvey _thinks_ that Mike realises it was merely a cunning technique of ensuring there isn't another repeat incident, while also amusing and appeasing the youngster, but he can't be sure.

On his return to the bed, Mike curls up on his lap and continues to sniffle softly and horde a bulge of fabric from Harvey's shirt in his fist while he strokes his hair, as if terrified he's planning on going somewhere. Which is ridiculous. Like he's going anywhere.

Not when Mike needs him more than ever.

As the days wear on, Mike's mental age hardly rises, stuck with the intellectual maturity of a toddler from morning to night, with the briefest moments of teenage lucidity in between, whereas before it was the other way around.

He continually picks at his coverlet's pills and blows them into Harvey's face with noisy gusts, speaks to the nurses through Harvey and to Harvey through Jellybean, jiggles his IV bag despite being told _over and over_ again not to, whines about everything from the smell of Harvey's coffee to the way Harvey cut his sandwich ('Jellybean says he likes triangles, not rectangles!' the boy wails, 'Well, Jellybean's not the one eating it, is he?')

By that stage, Harvey's patience was really starting to wear thin, but he knew Mike's relapse was a natural reaction to the stress, so he didn't blame him.

Much.

Mike's anxiety has always been virtually transparent. He'll chew Jellybean's foot, tug his sleeve between his teeth, gnaw on his fingers, and suck his thumb 'til it wrinkles.

And even though he can act like a holy terror at times, there are times like those when he's so darn cute and lovable that Harvey can't possibly stay mad.

Still, he's eager for the kid's release, if only for the return to normalcy. Well, _their_ version of normalcy, anyhow.

In the meantime, though, they watch movies together on his laptop, colour in picture after picture, throw 'picnics' on top of a tartan blanket flung on the bed with the food Donna brings, he reads until he sounds like he's losing his voice, and more often than not, visitors arrive only to find both males dead to the world, with Harvey unable to defend himself against the lure of sleep when sending Mike off to dreamland for his afternoon nap.

Jessica and Louis get a particular chuckle out of that when they happen upon the two curling in to each other, light snores in sync. Harvey jolts awake soon after their arrival, bleary-eyed and unprepared, but with Donna on guard, reading a magazine in the spare chair, they have no other choice than to adhere to gentle ribbing, to Louis' everlasting disappointment. His shaded eyes rove over Harvey's casual attire - tailored, light blue shirt rolled up to the elbows and dark jeans. Obviously Dad clothes as opposed to the classy business-like gear he's used to seeing him in. Stylish, yes, but Dad clothes, nonetheless.

There's even a small stain and deepened creases on the lower corner where Mike routinely clings to him. Louis rests his gaze there for longer than is strictly necessary, eyes darting to Donna and back to him again, almost petulant.

He knows he may never get that chance again.

As for Donna…

What can he say about Donna?

She forces him to take walks, get some fresh air, grab a hot coffee. She encourages him to go back to the condo for short bursts of time to shower, freshen up, change his clothes. She supplies him with work and keeps him updated on what's going on at the firm.

In short, she's his anchor.

Nothing different there.

Mike doesn't appreciate these bouts of absences, but Donna assures him that he's not neglecting him by leaving; he's keeping himself sane.

Harvey hates watching Mike incessantly get poked and prodded, and though he hides his tension as much as he can - for his son's sake, - Donna's always been able to see through his act like no-one else can and recognises when he could do with a break.

One of his biggest personal triggers, he's found, are mealtimes.

And because there tends to be three of them sprinkled throughout the day, _every_ day, Harvey constantly feels wired and on edge, like he's one rejected meal away from cracking. Or throwing a plate at the wall.

Following the operation, Mike has consumed a very modest amount of food, preferring liquids to solids, and Harvey tries to persuade him to eat more, but his efforts are met with exasperatingly little success. His paternal instincts gnaw at him, fretting that Mike hasn't had a full meal in days, but it's whatever his unsettled tummy can handle and the older man should consider himself fortunate for getting him to take anything at all. But he doesn't.

He _really_ doesn't.

"Come on," Harvey waves the fork, pleading, "One more bite."

He hates himself for pushing and pushing and pushing, but he's eaten _so_ _little_ and Harvey is nothing if not forceful.

"Don't want it," Mike huffs.

"You'll feel better with something in your tummy," he urges, then pops the rubbery chicken nugget into his mouth, making a show of chewing and swallowing, "Look. Daddy's eating too." Harvey only refers to himself in third person when Mike's mind is at its youngest and he is at his most desperate, which…ever since his admission has been almost constant, so…

Least Donna gets a kick out of it.

"Don't care." The boy pushes the tray away and locks his jaw, turning his cheek. His face says what his lips don't need to. _If you like it so much,_ you _can_   _eat it._

"Mike…"

"Leave him." Another voice arrives on scene and they both turn to see a shock of flaming red hair enter, tall heels clicking against the linoleum. "I have just the thing."

"Donna!" Mike cries, thrilled at her reappearance, face brightening and bouncing in the spot. It seems to Harvey that the longer he remains in the mind of a youngster, the more Mike's reverence for Donna strengthens. And, in turn, so does their relationship. He idolises her like no-one else, expect maybe Harvey himself. _Maybe_.

"Easy on the bouncing, tigger," he cautions, "Your side's still fairly tender."

Mike takes no notice of him.

Her hair is perfectly made up, sun-streaked and deceptively natural, and it falls around her shoulders in loose, easy curls. She wears an understated, figure-hugging lilac dress that tucks in at the knees. As usual, she looks stunning.

"Hi, sweet pea." Donna bends over the bed and squashes her lips to the boy's crown in a squelchy peck. "Mwah!"

" _Donnaaaa_ ," Mike giggles, chafing his forehead with a rough heel of his hand and a wrinkled nose. He only succeeds in smearing scarlet lipstick all over his skin, even managing to stain one side of his nose a deep cherry pink. Holding back a chuckle, Harvey snags a wet wipe to scrub his face.

She grins, unapologetic. "Would you forgive me if I said I have a surprise for you?"

"You do?" he gasps, pushing Harvey away. "What?"

Harvey doesn't understand why he's so excited. He has three helium balloons, more get-well-soon cards than he can count, five new stuffed animal buddies, two sticker books, and a whole bundle of comics. How can he possibly find the idea of more gifts so appealing?

"Uh, uh, uh," Donna shakes her head, "Only good little boys who eat all of their dinner get surprises."

"But - but - I'm not _hungry_."

"Tough. You want your surprise or not?"

He sighs, shrugs, miraculously picks up the fork and pokes a fry. "Guess."

"Well, then, you'd better get chomping, shouldn't you?"

He hammers the base of the fork against the tray, and stabs and pounds his food until it's mostly inedible, daintily nibbles rather than devours, but it's more than Harvey ever could have hoped. Once he's half-way through, Mike glances up as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, thick lashes framing his arresting azure gaze. "Donna…" he sweetly drawls, "Can I have my surprise now?"

She consults Harvey. He shrugs.

"You done?"

Mike nods, doe eyes pitiful. "Too full."

"In that case…I _suppose_ it would be alright." One finger snaps up. "On one condition."

"What?"

"Free hugs," Donna bargains, "Any time I want. No backsies."

Mike nods, oblivious, and grins (which has Harvey grinning too. He has _no idea_ what he's agreeing to).

"Pinky swear?" she persists, holding up a finger which he eagerly wraps his around and settles back, waiting expectantly.

Harvey laughs. "You are evil," he accuses, "Exploiting a kid like that."

"It's not exploiting if it's mutually beneficial."

"Mutual," Harvey snorts. "Right."

"You don't even know what I bought him yet," she snipes.

"Don't need to."

Rolling her eyes with a damning twitching of the lips, Donna rummages around her handbag and pulls out a Deadpool action figure to add to his growing collection - mint condition, though that won't last long. She smiles. "Enjoy."

Mike takes it and beams. "Thank you, Donna." His eyes are bright and adoring and so impossibly blue. Harvey can see her melt on sight.

While Mike inspects his shiny offering, the older man also mouths a silent thank you, relief and appreciation washing through him, and she gives a small smile in return.

"You're welcome, sweetie," Donna replies, and her gaze brushes against Harvey's for the briefest of seconds before she quickly glances away and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

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His Dad is in the middle of folding the clothes Donna brought (or more accurately, _bought_ , going by the bent tags in the trash can. She loves any excuse to shop for him), and packing his things into a backpack.

Today Mike is finally allowed to go home and he couldn't be more excited if he tried.

"Ready?" Harvey queries a few minutes later, zipper clinking as he yanks it up.

"Almost." He's tying his laces - or attempting to, at any rate. His fingers are still so clumsy. He had been gripping the bed frame for support as he hopped on one leg and tugged on a sneaker, but he'd stopped pretty quickly once he'd felt his stitches stretch and Harvey fired him a look that had obediently parking his butt on the bed.

"Slow poke," Dad teases as he bends down to lend a hand, then freezes. "Mike…" he says slowly, carefully, "Are you sure your shoes are on the right feet?"

"Silly Daddy," Mike giggles, then instantly winces. He's still not fully _himself_ yet. Obviously. "I know they're my feet."

But Harvey just laughs it off. He's gotten ridiculously good at this. "Oh, you do, do you? Alright, smarty-pants. Well, next time let's try putting them on with this little bump, see along here, facing inwards, okay? Saves me from making any more switcheroos." He plucks off the sneakers, swaps them around, and then niftily laces them up.

Mike can't wait to get back to the condo where he'll be - fingers crossed - a little less giggly and a lot more I-can-be-trusted-to-dress-myself-today.

As of now, he'll refrain from snapping at Dad about patronising him, because, well, he's well within his rights, and, much as it pains him to admit, Mike needs the help.

So he lets him wrap an arm around his shoulder to help him out to where Ray is parked, he doesn't argue when he sets up camp for him on the couch, smothering him in blankets and changing it to the kiddie channel, stops himself from complaining when he puts him down for a nap.

Mike doesn't argue because after all he's done for him, Harvey deserves to cope with this however he can.

The next day is pretty much the same. The only difference is that Mike is more or less back to normal, or at least in better form, and as such Harvey gives him a little more space.

He even lets him watch atrocious reality TV.

Reality TV is for Mike what comfort food is for everyone else.

"Hey, Dad, check this out. Jen got a tattoo of Kyle's private parts and now Ben's making out with Kyle's girlfriend, Tiffany, because he slept with Jen after they won some challenge last week and he was working up the courage to ask her out. Not that that means much. Dude really gets around."

Eyes distant, he replies distractedly, "That's great, pup."

Mike's smile dissolves, a concerned frown taking its place. "What's up?"

Harvey doesn't answer.

Reading his reluctance in his silence, Mike leverages himself up on an elbow and then cautiously heaves himself off the pillow with a grunt, arms wobbling under his weight. He hates how weak he still is.

Heaving a sigh, he pronounces, "It's later, isn't it?"

Harvey nods, jaw tight. "Yeah. I think it is."

 _"Yayyyyy_ ," he sings flatly and scoots over to make room for Harvey to sit down. He searches for the remote and finds it jammed under a cushion. The screen goes black. When Harvey continues to say nothing, Mike rolls his eyes. "Okay…I'll begin. Listen, I feel terrible for not telling you that I was ill. And I should never have tried to hide it from Donna and Rachel. But, in my defence, I'm an _idiot_ when I'm ill. So," he shrugs.

"Yes," Harvey grits, and Mike notices he doesn't disagree with the idiot thing, "But this wasn't exactly a one time thing, was it?" He sighs. "Why do you never tell me anything, Mike? What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not _afraid_ -"

"I think you are. I think you still believe you're burdening me with your problems and that's what I don't get. I've told you time and time again how much you mean to me, but it's like you assume there's some sort of cut off point to what I'll want to deal with and then I'll, what…give you up?"

"No, no, that's not it." That's sort of exactly it. "Part of it, I think…look, my other Dad, he never would have-" Mike breaks off, exhales tersely, sinks a hand through his hair and tugs at his roots - hard. "He never would have put up with half the wimpy crap you have." Harvey opens his mouth to argue, but Mike doesn't give him the chance. "He would have told me to buck up, be a man. Deal with it on my own. And ever since he and my Mom died…that's what I've always done. So when shit like this happens…as soon as things start to go wrong…I'm reminded of everything I can't be, the person I ought to be, and all of the expectations that my Dad had for me."

By now, Mike is on the brink of tears and Harvey pulls him close.

"Sometimes I think that," his voice cracks, "Maybe…you know, maybe he'd be proud of me? But then I realise that it's just me; will only ever be me. Me and my imagination and a whole lot of wishful thinking."

He presses his lips together to defend against the flood of tears that rise from his throat. But the dam rips apart and his face crumples as the first sob thrashes free. He pushes his wet face against Harvey's chest.

"Shhh. It's okay, it's okay."

Harvey dutifully rubs his back and doesn't speak for the longest time, not until he's all cried out and the hiccups wane and it's quiet again.

"For what it's worth, kiddo… _I'm_ proud of you." Mike snorts. "No, really," he insists, "I've _always_ been proud of you. I just couldn't say it before. And I think you've managed this transition incredibly well."

He wipes his eyes and laughs bitterly. "It doesn't feel like it."

"Trust me," Harvey says, voice firm, "You have. I was there that day at the lab too, remember? This all could have happened to me. Do you think I would have dealt with it with even a quarter of the amount of selflessness and dignify that you have?"

He shudders at the thought and answers before he can think twice about it, "Christ, no."

"Exactly," he grins, "I would have _lost my shit_. So give yourself a bit of credit, will you? We're both doing the best we can."

"I just…I don't want to get in the way any more than I already I have. I don't want to get in the way of your-"

"My what, Mike? _Life_? Mike, puppy," he pets his hair and smiles gently, "We've been over this. I would do anything for you. Name it, _anything_." And Mike doesn't need the earnestness in his voice to know that he's telling the truth. He's already proved it a hundred times over. "That's what parents do. They set aside their own needs, they put their kids first. They..," his lip curves in an almost wistful half-smile, "They stay in to take care of them when they're sick."

" _I know_ ," Mike says, frustrated; mostly with himself. "I'm sorry. I am. It's not something I can change overnight, alright? You said you'd give me time and I'm asking for it now. I'm not used to having someone looking for me. Bear with me."

"I wish I could, Mike. You know, I would love to give you all the time in the world. But when it comes to stuff like this? You _can_ _'t_ keep me in the dark. What if Donna hadn't called me when she did - what then?" His voice is aghast, brown eyes smouldering, almost beseeching. "What if we didn't catch this in time? I…I _can_ _'t_ lose you, Mike. Please, _please_ don't do that to me again."

Suddenly, Harvey's face is much too serious, the space is much too small between them, and Mike is suddenly desperate to ground himself, keep himself tethered here _, now_ ; he doesn't want to shut himself away in a cage of regret and self-loathing.

So, in an effort to lighten the mood, he jokes, "Sort of can't, remember? My appendix's gone."

"You _would_ choose to be at smartass at a time like this," Harvey rolls his eyes, "Besides, you know what I mean."

"Yeah..," he nods, "I do."

It means, maybe, it's time to stop hesitating.

Maybe it's time to be thankful. Rather than remorseful.

Mike rests his head on Harvey's shoulder.

"I love you, Dad," he says and it's the first time he's ever said it. First time he's ever meant it.

Harvey startles.

He drops a kiss on the youngster's crown, grins 'til crinkles appear around his eyes, and returns with remarkable ease, "Love you, too, puppy."

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_Thank you for reading._


	13. Extra: Off Your Back

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**BONUS CHAPTER:**

Off Your Back

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**A/N:** What did I tell you? I _did_ say I wasn't quite finished with this yet, and, ah, yeah…this happened. It's pretty long, too. I make no apologies.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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The sky is a deep, azure blue and the sun beats down on both boys' backs as they align five stuffed animals around them in an intimate circle out on the balcony. It only barely passes as warm, hence the lack of sun cream, but it is sunny, despite the chill in the air, so Harvey thought it might be nice for them to play outside for a change.

Ankles crossed as he lies out on a sun lounger in the shade reading a newspaper, Harvey watches them curiously. He folds the paper and hoists himself up, removing his dark Ray Bans and tapping the temple tips on his knee.

Pierce had been in his younger mindset when Harvey called his mom about arranging another play-date, and she has sounded so frazzled over the phone that he'd told her to bring him right over. Take him off her hands for a while. Her husband's been away on a business trip for the last two weeks, so she's been watching him by herself, and it doesn't sound like it's been going so well for her. He can be a bit of a handle sometimes. But Harvey doesn't mind.

He likes Pierce. He's a good kid and he gets Mike in a way that other kids his age never will. They're as thick as thieves, those two. So, he hasn't anything against him, even if they do tend to get into a lot more mischief when paired together.

"Hey, boys," he calls over, "What are you two up to?"

"Proving Mr. Mc Fuzz's innocence," Mike answers, peeling translucent tape off what looks like a toy gun and setting it carefully aside, next to an ink pad.

Harvey frowns. "Excuse me?"

"Someone shot Professor Wilbur," Pierce continues, "The fingerprints on the murder weapon match Mr Mc Fuzz, and his alibi fell through. We're trying to prove he was set up."

A warm smile crosses Harvey's face. That explains the tape and ink.

"Ah…," he nods, "Another game of cops and lawyers?"

"We're grilling potential witnesses now."

"I see. Well, don't let me get in the way. Wouldn't want to slow down your investigation."

"I didn't even take on the case pro-bono, Dad," Mike grins adorably, dimples on display, "You should be proud."

Harvey smirks. Indeed, he is.

"At first I thought he was just another slimy lawyer in for the money, but Mr. Specter proved to be a surprisingly nice defence attorney."

"Yes, and Detective Colin won me over with his mighty spiel about justice and sh-" Mike quickly changes tracks, "stuff."

"Don't forget my speedy state-issued vehicle, of course."

"Yeah, I couldn't compete with that."

"Told you," Pierce sticks out his tongue, "Being a cop is way more awesome than being a stinkin' lawyer. No offence, Mr. Specter."

He purses his lips. "Offence taken."

Safely on the fence, Mike says diplomatically, "It has it's moments."

"Hey," Pierce gasps, shaking his shoulder in excitement, "I just had a thought. What if we went to the academy together after we finish school? How sweet would that be?"

Mike grins. "Seriously?"

"Sure."

"You know, I've never considered it before…"

Harvey blanches. "Wait, wait, wait - we're still talking about pretend…right?"

"Dude, think about it." They ignore him. "It would be _so cool_. "

"Er, not as cool as you might think," Harvey interjects, swallowing around his suddenly thick tongue, "Too much terribly, terribly scary stuff. But _law school_ , on the other hand…Imagine that. That would pretty awesome, wouldn't it?"

Pierce cocks a brow, looking extremely dubious. "A bunch of stuck-up, loaded d-bags who think they're better than everyone else? Not sure if that's my thing."

"Not necessarily," he argues, but he's grasping at straws here, "Picture Harvard, for example. Going to lectures with some of the world's greatest scholars, getting allocated challenging assignments most week days, hitting it up in the library, pulling all-nighters, studying like crazy…," he trails off weakly.

Somehow he's making it seem _worse_. Where is Louis when he needs him? That man could make it sound like a matter of life or death. Which, oddly enough, it kind of is, where Mike is concerned. God, he loves that boy with all of his heart, but for Christ's sake, who would trust that lovable moron out in the field? Trust him to wield _a gun_?

He'd be stumbling over his own feet at every turn.

"Give it up, Dad," Mike laughs, "You're asking Pierce to give up the chance of being shot at daily. To give up his beloved _revolver_. Nothing you say is going to dissuade him. There's no point listing all the negatives."

"Yeah," he retorts, like it's obvious, "Because you've already done it for me."

"Dad, calm down," Mike rolls his eyes, glancing to Piece like, _it's just your typical, stick-in-the-mud, parental concerns_ , _pay him no heed_ , "We're discussing hypothetical's, remember? It's not like I'll be rushing off to Quantico tomorrow."

"Ooh, FBI," Pierce chimes appreciatively, "That's a whole other level."

"But a good one, don't you think?" Mike turns back to him, contemplative, "Raise the bar a little higher. Dream big and all that."

"That's true." He taps his chin. "More face offs with serial killers."

"See? You're weighing up the benefits already."

"The _benefits_?" Harvey splutters incredulously, jaw gaping. They have _got_ to be winding him up. He wouldn't put it past them. The little terrors.

He shoves a hand through his hair and takes a step back. "I can't listen to this right now. I'm going to go watch the game."

"We'll talk about it later," Mike whispers, scarcely suppressing his snicker.

"I heard that!"

Their shrieking laughter follows him all the way to the living room.

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Not long after that, Pierce's mom comes to collect him. He can't say he's sad to see him go.

She stands by the door wringing her hands with a palpable sense of dread, lower lip tightly pinched. "So how was he?" She gnaws on her inner cheek, "Lay it on me, Harvey. Shoot it to me straight."

"Honestly, Kathleen," he chuckles. When it comes to neuroticism, she is so much worse than him. There's no competition. "He was great."

" _He was?_ "

"Yeeaaahh," Harvey says slowly, then hesitates, "I mean…well, there was one thing."

She tenses. "Yeah?"

Harvey casts a look over his shoulder to confirm the two are still down in the bedroom. It usually takes at least ten minutes after they're called for the boys to actually turn up, ready to go.

"Did you know he wanted to rejoin the police force?"

Kathleen sighs, as good as a yes. "He's smart enough not to admit as much when I'm around, but he's as obsessed as ever. Why?" She suddenly anxious again. "What'd he say?"

"Nothing, really. Though I'm worried he's been trying to convert Mike," Harvey explains, before she can become too stressed.

Kathleen stops short.

" _Your_ Mike? _Really_?"

Despite the fact that he expressed similar concerns himself earlier, Harvey is more than a little insulted by her disbelieving tone. As hypocritical as it may be, he bristles at the idea that his son would be better suited to a milder, less risky career.

Like any parent, he feels defensive.

Mike could be _anything_ he wanted to be.

"Jeez, Kath, don't sound too scandalised. Don't you think he'd make a good cop?"

" _No_ ," she denies, fervent, "Wait, no. I mean, _yes_ \- Harvey, that's not what I mean at all. It's just…," the nervous woman gestures with her hands trying to minimize her offence, "He's such an utter _sweetheart_ , I couldn't imagine Mike being interested in something like that."

His tone chills, once again displeased. "You'd be surprised."

"I wouldn't worry, Harvey," Kathleen attempts to comfort, "Kid's are always reassessing their career choices. Let them have their fantasies."

Harvey supposes she's right.

There's no point making a big deal out of it.

Yet…as he bids Pierce and his mom farewell, he can't help but feel, well, somewhat disheartened.

It's ridiculous, he knows, but Mike has always looked at him like he commands the moon and the stars, and Harvey doesn't like the idea of his son directing that heart-warming admiration elsewhere.

At first, Harvey simply thought he kept the kid around for the sole purpose of stroking his ego - that wide-eyed wonderment and unflinching faith, like he could put an end to the world frickin' hunger if he put his mind to it. But, even before the 'transition,' as he prefers to call it, Harvey was quick to grasp that Mike's awestruck glorification wasn't only a pleasant top up for his self-worth, but a marker of his own personal growth. He didn't feel entitled to one of Mike's stupefied tangents after winning a case - the way he'd prattle on and on like an gauche child, and all but beg for a high-five - he wanted to feel like he'd earned it, _deserved_ it.

He liked being somebody's hero.

So, yeah, sue him if he's a little upset about the possibility of Mike losing interest and viewing the law as something lame and boring. And for all intents and purposes…him. With his flashy vehicles and snazzy suits, not mention the unofficial title of best closer in New York, Harvey didn't think he'd ever have to _work_ to get Mike to look up to him.

His melancholic mood lasts throughout dinner and stretches long into the evening when he and Mike are seated on a rug building an odd tower, structure-like _thing_ , out of Lego. He can't shake it.

Not until a polite rapping sounds at the door, announcing an unforeseen visitor.

He pushes himself off the floor with a groan, and reluctantly stumbles over to answer, Mike's curious eyes following closely behind.

Swinging open the door, he blinks in surprise.

"Jessica…" he blurts, "This is…unexpected."

"Hello, Harvey." She stands with her usual poise, perfectly refined in a beautiful, luscious plum dress. "I apologise for showing up out of the blue. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Somehow, he doesn't think Lego building counts in her eyes.

"Uh…no. Not really. Come on in." He stands back and kicks the occasional coloured block out of the way as he leads his boss through the hallway - to avoid her sharp heels - and rubs the back of his head, wishing he weren't in a t-shirt and sweats and that the condo wasn't so unfortunately messed up. Before Mike, he never had to worry about this kind of thing. His living space was in a near constant state of immaculacy. As was he.

"Hey, Mike," Jessica greets with a cordial smile, moving to set her handbag down on the counter, before thinking better of it, spying the dappled puddle of spilled juice and pasta sauce.

"Hi," he replies shyly, hand creeping up his chin. He glances back to Harvey, who shrugs.

"If it's not too much trouble, may I speak to your Dad in private for a moment?"

Cramming his fingers into his mouth, Mike scowls. "But…but…" His protest isn't entirely unanticipated, "My Daddy."

"I know he is," she answers patiently, nodding along, while Harvey smirks. "But could I possibly borrow him for a little bit? I promise I'll give him right back."

Considering this, the youngster sucks on his bundle of fingers and responds unsurely, "I dunno…"

"Ah, ah, ah," Harvey scolds, "What have I told you about talking to people with your fingers in your mouth?"

Mike sighs long-suffering and extracts the digits with a string of drool. "It's _icky_."

"And?"

"Rude."

"It sure is. So try to keep your hand away from face in future, okay?"

"But - but Jessica trying to - to steal you 'way!" the boy exclaims with huge eyes, as if tattling on the pre-schooler who's taken his favourite toy.

Feigning horror, Harvey slaps a hand over his mouth and turns to the indifferent woman with a scandalised face and barely disguised amusement. "You wouldn't do an awful thing like that, would you, Jessica?"

She shakes her head slowly, mostly at Harvey's wicked grin. "No," she assures quietly, looking at Mike seriously, "I would not."

"Well, there you have it," the senior partner proclaims. "Hear that, puppy? I'm not going anywhere. I swear, I'll be right over here. You'll be able to see me the whole time."

"But - but - _Mine_ ," he insists, latching onto Harvey's hand and tugging.

Caught between amusement and affection, Harvey threads his fingers through Mike's hair and appeases, "Yes, Mike. I'm your Dad, not Jessica's. But that doesn't mean that I can't talk to other grown-ups. Do you understand? Sometimes little boys and girls have to share their Daddies. That's just how it is."

Sadly, this isn't the first time they've had this conversation, nor will it be the last. Ever since the adoption was finalized, it's been cropping up every so often. Not that Harvey finds it too much of a nuisance, for the most part. Mike is allowed to have his selfish moments. Most children do.

"But-"

"No buts. Go finish your tower," he instructs, pushing him gently in the direction of his toys. "I'll come take a look at it soon. Go on. Shoo."

Accepting that his Dad is never going to budge on this matter, the moping kid finally leaves, dragging his feet loudly over to the mound of miniature doors and windows and buildings missing essential parts, small police cars half taken apart and bright bricks strewn across the soft rug, and dropping down with a pout.

"Sorry about that." Harvey half-heartedly pulls a face and shrugs. "He's a little possessive at the moment."

"I can see that," Jessica responds with a smirk, one brow hoisted upwards as if in challenge.

"It's just a phase-"

"I bet it is."

"He'll grow out of it soon."

His boss tosses him a taunting smirk. "You _are_ the expert."

Refusing to rise to the bait, he insists, "It's a normal, healthy stage of a child's development-"

"Uh-huh."

"It doesn't change anything."

The smirk grows more pronounced. "Not a single thing."

But, secretly, Harvey is just the tiniest bit pleased, and from the look on her face, Jessica knows it, too. He may not always be Mike's only idol, but he will always be his Dad, and isn't that practically the same thing?

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* * *

"You want anything? Tea? Coffee? I'd offer you a glass of wine, but I'm all out. Donna was babysitting last weekend and I haven't had the chance to restock since."

"Coffee is fine," Jessica replies, gazing around her with interest, rather than disdain. So long as she doesn't choose to lecture him like she did after discovering Harvey's office in a similar state when Mike's school was out for the day, she can look all she likes.

"Black?"

"Please."

He pours her a mug from the pot and places it on the counter, before heaving an overflowing laundry basket from where it's been delicately balanced on the stool, and brushing it down. "Here, take a seat. You talk while I sort." He's been meaning to get around to this little chore for ages, so he begins digging through the pile, while Jessica removes a thin manila folder from her bag.

But she doesn't get around to presenting it to him, because Harvey's already distracted, frowning thoughtfully as he slowly unrolls an unremarkable looking blue and white cloth.

Jessica's probing voice brings him out of his abstraction.

"What's that?"

"Oh, uh…" It takes him a moment to get his bearings. It feels like his mind's been scattered around the room like the teeny Lego bricks. "I, uh, signed Mike up for baseball two weeks ago. He missed try-outs, but the coach was willing to make an exception for one little star player's signature. His first game's this weekend. I tried to wash his uniform, but I might have used too much detergent. Shit, I think I shrunk it or something." He stretches the material to inspect and waves it briskly like a flag. "Does this look small to you?"

"Tiny," she remarks, "But Mike's not exactly brawny, so I wouldn't worry."

"Yeah, but he's got such sensitive skin…" Worried, he brings the wrinkled fabric to his nostrils and gives a loud sniff. "Oh, yeah," Harvey coughs, screwing up his face, "I definitely overdid it. Fuck."

"Harvey, relax." He's not even _that_ worked up. "There's no need to panic. I assume you bought a spare?"

He shoots her a dry look. "What kind of father would I be if I didn't?"

"See? You're fine. Be more careful next time. Or better yet, let the professionals handle it."

"Yeah…yeah, you're right. I don't know why I didn't take it to the dry cleaners in the first place." Harvey shakes his head to clear it. "Sorry," he apologies, "I totally sidetracked you. What did you want to tell me?"

"No, no. It can wait," Jessica waves off his concerns, "You were telling me about Mike's game. What time does it start? I might be able to make it if I shuffle around a few things."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't. But you're not the only one that boy's managed to charm so thoroughly." Her lips form a gracious smile. "So, I'll ask again. What time?"

"Two thirty, Saturday. I'll text you the address. Donna'll be there, too. Probably cheering in the bleachers with a homemade banner, if she has her way. You can't miss her."

"He any good?"

"He will be with me giving him pointers. At the moment…he's better than half the other kids on the team, he'll do fine." He grabs a shirt from the mound and doubles the freshly-pressed material over bit by bit until it's a neat, even square, before plucking another.

"I know you, Harvey." Jessica's voice takes on a warning note. He very deliberately doesn't glance at her.

"Don't push it. If you let your competitiveness-"

"Let's call it enthusiasm."

"If you let your _enthusiasm,_ " she says it scornfully, "cloud your judgement, you'll take all the fun out of it. Do you really want to put Mike off the sport forever?"

"Donna already has me warned," he tells her, not at all sulkily. "She's limiting our time at the batting cages to twice a week, _if_ Mike's up to it. Maybe only once."

"I'm glad to hear it."

At that moment, Mike skids over to the breakfast bar with a bouncing, hopeful, "D _aaadddd_ , can I watch a movie?"

"Sorry, pup," Harvey shrugs, "Not now. It's too late."

"But…" Mike chews on the tip of his thumb. "But what if I pick a _really_ short one?"

"By short, you mean an hour and a half, right? You know, the average length of any movie?" He rolls his eyes as the boy glances at him sweetly and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "You know the rules, Mike. Bedtime's in twenty minutes, so you may squeeze in as many Youtube videos as you can within that time limit, because you ain't sticking on a film. Go put your PJ's on and maybe, if you behave, I'll read you a story later. Deal?"

Exhaling noisily, Mike grudgingly agrees, "Fine."

"And what do we have to be?"

He stares at the tiled floor and scoots his foot along the dark lines. _"Good as gold."_

"That's right. Good as gold. And only good little puppies who tidy up their toys, brush their teeth, and are in their beds by nine earn that title. Do you think you can do that while I see to our guest?"

"Uh-huh," he glances up quickly, nodding eagerly with wide, dewy eyes, "I _promise_."

"I'm counting on it."

The boys races off to make the most of what's left of his night, and Harvey chuckles, shaking his head.

"Has he been hiding things in the washing machine again?" Jessica asks, once the kid's out of hearing range.

He jerks, startled. "How'd you know?"

"Just a hunch," the managing partner replies invasively, and discreetly disentangles a little green soldier from a white sheet and deposits it on the counter beside a mishmash of keys, Lego blocks and decapitated bodies (though she later spots the corresponding beaming, yellow heads rolling under the refrigerator), sticky balls of taffy, and dog-eared colouring books. It'll blend right in.

"I'm running out of ideas on what to do about it," Harvey admits, "For the past week, I've been accidentally washing a hoard of magnets because I didn't see them stuck to the inside of the drum. Those damn things survived at least ten cycles before I noticed. We've got so many now, I didn't even realise any were missing. Did you know they put magnets in cereal boxes? 'Cause I certainly didn't."

Jessica's smirking before she knows it. "How many were there?"

"I dunno. Ten, maybe fifteen."

"…You should probably talk to him about that."

"I did," he professes, at a loss, "He swears it wasn't him."

"Who else could it have been?"

"Jellybean's the prime suspect - being inanimate and all. Followed closely by me, who he claims placed them there either while sleepwalking or as part of a master plan to frame him for some inexplicable reason." At Jessica's baffled look, he adds, "Don't ask. He and his buddy watch an absurd amount of detective shows."

The corner of her mouth curves. "I must say…I almost respect his audacity."

Harvey sighs, "I do too." Then he scrubs a hand down his face and comments, "But I'm sure you didn't come all the way down here just to discuss Mike's idiosyncrasies and baseball games."

"No," Jessica's smile widens, "I did not."

"So…" Harvey plops down wearily on the stool beside her, "What have you got for me?"

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* * *

It isn't until he's woken up at five in the morning that Harvey realises that Mike is coming down with something.

Shrill, distraught cries hissing from the baby monitor yank him from a sound sleep and he staggers out of bed in nothing but his boxer briefs towards his son's room, comatose and with only one singular goal in mind: to do whatever it takes to get back to sleep.

 _Pronto_.

Only when he widens the crack and peers in, Mike is trapped in the throes of a severe coughing session and the muscles in Harvey's gut clinch as a pained keen erupts from his croaky throat. There are damp patches of perspiration soaking through his tee and his eyelashes are matted with tears.

Quickly sweeping him into a protective embrace, all of a sudden, there are nails scratching at his exposed flesh and wetness on his chest as the kid practically wrestles him into a hug in a frenzied need for comfort. An anxious hand seizes strands of his brown hair and pulls, almost uprooting his scalp in the process. Harvey winces, but doesn't make a move to dislodge the painful grip. It's clear he's only half-awake and is unlikely to remember any of this come morning.

"Nnmmm…Daddy…."

Yip.

Definitely won't remember a thing.

His breaths are loud and approximate wheezes, never a good sign. From the sounds of it, it's likely the beginning of a nasty chest infection. Probably not serious enough to merit a visit to the doctor, but he'll keep his ear to the ground.

Pulling his thumb from his mouth and patting his Dad's stubbly jaw-line with a marvellously slobbery hand as if to reassure himself that he's there, Mike brushes his nose against his collar and snuggles closer. "Ngghhh," he makes an indistinct sound of pleasure, which is only slightly heartening.

The youngster is horribly congested, so Harvey is forced to extract himself from Mike's clutch and disregard his shrieking cries, so as to rummage around in the bathroom for a few odd things. He's gone for mere moments, but it's long enough for him to twist out from underneath the covers. Mike's tee is already riding up from all the moving about, so, unscrewing the jar of Vapour rub and slipping a hand under the boy's pyjama top, he gently rubs the ointment onto his pale chest and then leaves once more to wash the slick grease off his hands.

Grabbing a thermometer, he comes back and inserts the instrument into an agitated Mike's ear long enough for it to bleep and display an accurate reading.

101.

Not ideal. But not _whatdoIdowhatdoIdo_ immobilizing terror either. Their reasonably long period in hospital still fresh in his mind, he's incredibly grateful for that.

"Open wide," Harvey coaxes the somnolent teen clinging to him, and manages to slot a spoon topped with fever-reducing medicine into his parted lips. Sleepy Mike is surprisingly co-operative.

"Don't…don't go."

Holding his head against his shoulder and grazing the ends of his light hair with his thumb, he soothes, "Shhh…I won't." Harvey carefully lies down and cautiously covers the pair in Mike's blankie - nothing too heavy. He can't risk aggravating his already too-high temperature.

Bunched up against his favourite resting spot, Mike instantly dozes off, whilst Harvey lies wide awake listening to the disturbing rattle of his phlegm-packed lungs straining to breathe, even when elevated, and gives up hope of getting an untroubled sleep again for however long his son is feeling under the weather.

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* * *

The next morning passes in a slothful fog.

Harvey lounges on the couch beside him, working diligently on his laptop and calling the odd client, while Mike watches cartoons with a hot water bottle flopping on his chest, sweltering over the thin tee he wears for protection, and cuddles Jellybean. It's much colder today than it was yesterday, but he still feels silly for using it. A gift from Donna, the covering of the hot water bottle has a rich, cobalt, faux tie pushed snugly underneath a neat, white collar, which are both stitched to perfection into the crisp material that actually _feels_ like one of Harvey's ensembles. If the lingering scent of his signature cologne is any indication, his Dad probably squirted a generous mist onto the surface. Some sort of Pavlov association bullshit intended to put him at ease.

Like, sure, it _works_ , but that's not the point. He knows what Harvey's trying to do.

He _knows_ , and he hates that knowing doesn't stop it from having a positive effect. Or, from Mike rubbing his cheek against it as it cools. That is, until Harvey gently steals the wobbly pillow in order to get a refill, presumably of both the boiling water and magic cologne. The crafty bastard.

The new comfort item is a bright spot in an otherwise dreary afternoon.

His body spasms while he coughs and coughs and coughs until he fears he might puke up blood. The one time Mike tried to hold it in, eyes watering and head spinning, he received a concerned scolding from Harvey, who insisted that coughing will help expel the infection from his lungs. Which is all well and good for him; he's not the one who has to suffer through it.

All Mike got was an extra lozenge for his troubles.

And Harvey watching him like a hawk. As if he wasn't bad enough beforehand.

See, this is why he hates being sick - besides, the whole feeling like crap thing. Harvey gets so frickin' thoughtful and attentive. Like, to the extreme. And he still hasn't forgotten what he was like after Mike's surgery. Mike has never been so eager to get back to the tedious normalcy of attending his tedious high school.

When his Dad leaves to fetch a box of Kleenex, Mike breathes a sigh of relief, but startles moments later as an extra weight is flung around his shoulders - _another_ damn blanket - and looks up to see Harvey sit cross-legged from where he's huddled up and hold a tissue in front of nose, before instructing, "Come on, kiddo. Big blow." Mike gives him his dullest look, but obliges - _without_ rolling eyes, thank you very much. He's rather proud of his restraint - and winces at the gust of pain that rushes through his head.

The senior partner crumples it up and chucks it in the trashcan at the boy's feet, along with the rest - a disgusting, rising heap.

From what seems like air, Harvey suddenly produces a tub of Vaseline and scrapes out a modest blob to smooth over his smarting nostrils and along his upper lip where the skin has started to chafe.

" _Dad._ You don't have to keep fussing over me," Mike rasps, turning his head away once he's finished, before he can spot something new to fret over. He pauses to cough and rub his shiny, reddened nose, smearing the clear jelly across his hand, but thankfully not removing the ointment in its entirety. That would only result in a taxing reapplication that he doesn't think he has the patience for. "I'm fine."

"I'm not fussing," he denies, but Mike only has to cast an eye to the trashcan and cock a brow to make his point. "Okay…maybe a little. Am I not allowed to tend for my poor puppy when he's not feeling well?" His brown eyes grow unbearably earnest. Let it be known, his Dad's not too bad at the puppy-dog eyes himself. "I can't be that bad, can I?"

"No," he sighs, except for the fact that, yeah, it's a weird kind of loving torture. Not that he'd _ever_ tell Harvey that. "You're not."

He'll let the babying slide for now, because he's already decided that there's no way is he enduring it for much longer. Come four o'clock, he's outta here. No matter _what_ his Dad says.

Only two more hours to go! (Yes, he has a countdown.)

"Well," Harvey looks slightly suspicious of his acceptance. As he should be. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll be right here."

"I will."

 _Not_.

"So," he indicates the two rubber sea mammals lying lifeless on Mike's lap that he's been playing with on and off all afternoon, one a toothy shark, the other a fearsome orca, "What are their names?"

Instantly, Mike feels _smaller_. And, absently, he wonders if perhaps that was Harvey's aim.

He twiddles his thumbs. "Batman and Not-Batman."

"Is that right?" Harvey's eyes crinkle in amusement, teeth emerging beneath a spreading smile. "And what are they doing?"

His voice is warm, plucking the answers from Mike even as he wants nothing more than to squirrel them away inside. Most of the times he doesn't mind behaving childishly around his Dad - because of those _damn twinkling brown eyes_ fastened dotingly on his - but he doesn't want to be a little kid today. He's a grown up.

Mostly.

"Fightin'," he mumbles, and bashes the two together once more for emphasis.

Harvey's grin widens and he ruffles his hair without commenting. He heads to the freezer for another strawberry-flavoured popsicle for Mike's sore throat and even goes so far as to unwrap it in advance, before giving it to the teen and returning to his work.

Vaseline-coated nostrils flaring, Mike takes it and grits his jaw to stop himself from saying anything he'll regret later.

Jesus, does Harvey have to be so overbearing _all the damn time_? He loves his Dad, he really does. But could he tone down the Mike's-a-helpless-little-baby-who-can't-do-anything-for-himself stuff? He has opposable thumbs, he _can_ tear open a paper wrapper himself. He's not a toddler who can't properly blow their nose or apply a thick salve without making a mess. He doesn't need all of… _this_.

But…

But, a voice in the back of his mind whispers, maybe Harvey does.

That's the only reason Mike puts up with it. That, and his time to cosset is almost up.

_Thank God._

He laps up his melting popsicle, streaks of an artificial cherry discolouring his tongue, and afterwards, he allows Harvey to wipe his face and sticky fingers, all the while biding his time. He waits patiently until the little hand on the clock crawls towards half three, and well, taking into account the time it'll take to walk over, decides that now is as good a time as any.

While the older man immerses himself in something in the kitchen (the steamy aroma is faint because of his stuffed up nose but it really does smell delectable. Too bad he won't be around to sample it), Mike sneaks down to his room and scouts around until he finds his sneakers kicked under the bed. His fingers fumble at the laces - so it's one of _those_ days, is it? - and he tangles them up in a sloppy knot, before giving up and tucking the ends inside the shoes.

"What are you doing?"

He jumps at the cool voice coming from the doorway.

So he _had_ noticed Mike's absence. Suppose it would've been hard not to, though it'd be nice if his Dad weren't in the habit of peeking over his shoulder every five goddamn minutes. Wishful thinking, really. That he could get away hassle-free.

Mike clutches a quick intake of breath. Braces himself.

"I'm going over to Jamie's to study," he explains with forced calm, "He needs to bump up his grade in Biology from a B minus to an A, and I promised I would help."

Harvey's eyebrows fly up, and he looks at him in utter disbelief for a minute, before his expression evens out into something dangerous. Dangerous, because of how scarily flat an expression it is. That never bodes well for Mike.

But he doesn't argue.

Instead, to Mike's astonishment, Harvey _smiles_.

"That's wonderful," he enthuses.

Mike stares. "It…it is?"

He doesn't let himself hope. This is way too good to be true.

"My puppy's such a good helper," Harvey proclaims with pride. "The _bestest_ helper, isn't that right? He's lucky to have you."

He narrows his eyes.

"Seriously?" Mike snorts, incredulous, "You're going there?"

So that's how he wants to play it, huh?  _Bring it._

Harvey doesn't acknowledge his hardened features or the undercurrent of frustration in his tone. He simply continues breezily, "Would you like some tomato soup before you go? It's homemade and I've got a couple of yummy fresh rolls to go along with it. You'll be extra careful not to spill any, though, won't you? Such a messy boy." By the end, his voice borders on an actual coo, and he smiles brightly and fondly tousles the teenager's hair.

Christ. Mike forgot how stupidly amazing he is at this. Hell, it's effortless.

"Dad, stop. It's not going to work."

But the terrifying part is, it very well might.

"What?" Harvey poses, his lip still quirked in that same affectionate half-smile, with kind eyes that are exasperatingly innocent, "Sometimes you need a little reminder. No shame in that. I wouldn't want you to ruin your lovely shirt." He irons down his collar with a wispy sweep. "What would your friend think?"

"You are unbelievable." Mike wrenches away and scowls fiercely. "Totally despicable, you know that, right? _Jamie_ isn't the one treating me like a toddler. Or trying to manipulate me into acting like one, for that matter. Cut it out."

But if Mike thinks for even one second that his rage is going to force Harvey to break character, he is in for one heck of a surprise.

"You sound a little upset, puppy. Is it because you don't feel well? Are you worried Jamie might catch what you have? Because you don't have to go if you don't want to. You can snuggle up with Daddy in the living room and we can hook my laptop up to the TV and stream a nice movie. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"That is _not_ fair. You cannot keep doing this every time I'm about to do something you don't want me to d-"

His rant is interrupted by a virulent coughing fit and Mike doubles over, struggling to suck in the shallowest of breaths through the tickly burn that films his throat. His head pounds.

"Awww, there, there," Harvey sympathetically croons, patting his back and rubbing in large circles, "Poor puppy. That's a nasty cough, isn't it? C'mon, let me draw you a nice, warm bath with a few drops of lavender oil." He wraps an arm around Mike's shoulders and pulls him against his torso. "The steam'll help clear your chest a bit."

But Mike hasn't entirely lost his senses yet.

He shoves him away. "No! No, wanna go - go Jamie's!" He can't quite recall what was so important that he'd turn down spending the day snuggled up with his Daddy - only that it was. He's sweaty and gross, so in any other circumstance, a bath would be much appreciated, but he will not allow his plans to be foiled so easily. He needs to…to… _what_ is it he needs to do? Something about revising at Jamie's. But that sounds like a pretty boring way to squander his time. Why would he volunteer to do that?

"I'll call his Mum. Tell her you're not feeling so good. You don't want to make him sick, do you? Then how's he supposed to study for his test?"

Mike hiccups, burrowing his runny nose in Harvey's shirt, and it's only then that he realises he's crying. "I dun want him to - to _f-fail_ ," he sobs.

"Shhhh, settle down. That's no reason to cry. I know you don't, buddy, I know." The sheltered arm around his shoulder is back and steering him in another direction. "Let's go run you that wonderful, hot bath and then you can have some of that soup, how's that? It's alright, you're just tired. It's been a long day."

"Then…then movie?" Mike sniffles, glancing up hopefully.

"That's what I promised, isn't it?"

Harvey steadies his back while he helps him out of his oppressive clothes and he leans into the supportive touch, his former feelings of irritation all but forgotten.

Daddy isn't smothering him; he's just being Daddy.

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* * *

Not long after scoffing down his soup and almost dooming Jellybean to an premature trip to the washing machine if it weren't for Harvey's quick reflexes (he tried to 'share' his meal with the stuffed wolf, which is sweet and all, but tomato soup _stains_ ), Mike fell asleep stretched out across his father midway through .

Faced with the first prospect of peace all day, Harvey's not sure what to do with himself.

Flicking through the channels, he eventually comes across an old re-run of Jurassic Park and leaves it on with a shrug. He's not really bothered, to be honest, but it beats the alternative. Adorable though they may be, Mike's sleepy snuffles are hugely distracting (constant cooing tends to be cause little productivity in the long-term), and so the background noise of the film is much preferred.

Harvey inattentively pets his son's hair and thumbs through his briefs, only half paying attention to the movement on the monitor. And, by extension, to the comfortable warmth in his lap. Not even as it begins to shift and squirm.

After all, Mike is a very restless sleeper.

He doesn't expect any susceptible ears to pick up the strange sounds, or for stilled lashes to suddenly flutter. He doesn't expect the conflict to take centre stage, or for the sudden violent output on screen to matter.

Harvey certainly doesn't expect it when a hoarse, sleep-filled voice pipes up amongst the work-driven hush. or he would never have flinched and cussed himself out for not being more observant.

"What happened person?" Mike anxiously demands, blue eyes watery and a slimy thumb already indented with teeth when Harvey dares glance down, "Where person go?"

Harvey's jaw falls open and a very faint, guttural _ahhhhhh_ comes to light.

He tilts his head and scratches behind his ear.

"He, uh…he - he, um…ran…away. Yeah, that's it," he declares with more confidence, "He ran away."

Mike's frown deepens. "…Where?"

Shit. Doesn't look like he's buying it.

"Behind the trees…I think." It's not too late. He can still smooth this over. "But it all happened very fast, it's hard to be sure."

"He okay?"

Dammit, must his eyes be so darn innocent and heartfelt? Harvey hates lying to him, hates the cramp that hits his stomach like a punch, but reminds himself it's in the kid's best interests. Otherwise, there'd be snot and tears and maybe even a spray of vomit, if he works himself up too much, which, let's face it, it's Mike, he totally would.

"Uh….sure. Of course he is."

_Why on earth wouldn't he be? Jeez, it's not like he was eaten or anything…_

"Scared," Mike whimpers, tugging the blanket over his head and hiding his face in Harvey's stomach, to Harvey's increasing guilt.

"I'm sorry, pup," he grimaces, "Daddy thought you were sleeping. It's off now, see? No more mean dinosaurs."

Mike sniffs and ever so slowly peeks out over the covers, scruffy blonde hair sticking up in all directions. "Gone?"

"Yeah," Harvey says softly, rubbing his head and pushing his hair back. "They're gone."

He plugs in another movie, this one much more child-friendly, and Mike relaxes enough to release his deathly-tight grip on Jellybean. But in his mind, come bedtime, Harvey resolves to do a quick sweep of the teen's bedroom for anything dinosaur-related.

Wouldn't want to give his baby boy any more horrid nightmares.

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* * *

Kneeling at Harvey's feet, barefoot and clad in his cosy Spider man jammies, Mike is steadying a Batman action figurine on top of a white steed in preparation of their noble quest. If past games are anything to go by, they should be galloping over mighty mountains in the form of cushions and battling a ferocious 'beast' (also known as, Snuffles, the overweight teddy bear), in order to the save the beautiful princess who bears a striking resemblance to Superman. Not exactly a poor damsel in distress. But Harvey never says anything.

It's highly entertaining. And too damn cute for words.

Today, though, he's not exactly in a light-hearted mood and he can't bring himself to properly enjoy the spectacle. He still feels bad about earlier. For the lies, the manipulation, and the accidental exposure to inappropriate content. All of it. It's making him feel like a sucky parent.

He doesn't realise he's about to feel a whole lot worse.

Completely out of the blue, Mike asks, "Daddy?"

It's the wobble in voice that alerts Harvey.

"Yes, puppy?" he responds, looking down to see his boy struggling to hold back tears.

"W-what if I'm not better before my game?"

Oh, _crap_.

He'd forgotten about that. _How_ could he forget about that? Mike's big day.

"Hey, hey, it's alright." He crouches down in front of him and strokes his cheek. "You've still got another four days before you have to worry about that."

"But-"

"Here's the deal, I'll do my best to make you better; you concentrate on getting better, okay?"

Mike knuckles his eyes. "O-okay."

"Good boy," he smiles, "Look, I'll go whip up a super special hot drink for you that might speed things up. Tried and tested. Will you give it a go?"

"I…I guess."

Harvey ruffles his hair with a grin and leaves to go prepare the old-fashioned remedy. He squeezes a lemon wedge into a hot cup of water and grates some lemon rind, and lets it steep for five minutes, before straining it and adding a touch of honey.

He offers the heady blend to a suspicious Mike, who wrinkles his nose and turns his head away, which...he can't say he didn't expect.

"Don't like it," he huffs, pouting.

"You haven't even tried it."

"Don't want it."

His tone is utterly uncompromising, but Harvey is not above pleading. In fact, it seems to be all he's capable of, too exhausted to argue. "Please, Mike? One little mouthful. For Daddy?"

Mike is far from enthusiastic. But Harvey just looks so hopeful that he doesn't want to let him down.

He takes a sip.

And immediately grimaces.

"Daddy, it tastes funny!" he complains.

"I know it does, kiddo. But it's good for you, I promise. Keep going, you're being such a good boy for Daddy."

He tries to knock back more, but his clutch is slightly askew, with a less than an inch gap dividing his lips and the rim, and the act is naturally clumsy. Unconsciously or not, the bitter, warm tea is left dribbling down his chin and neck, soaking into the collar of his pyjama top. After grabbing a wipe and cleaning him up, Harvey offers a reassuring smile and holds the mug for him, while Mike scowls and swallows at a leisurely pace. By then end, he is on the edge of sleep, and Harvey spoons another dosage of orange-flavoured Tylenol into him, before tucking his blankie around his sluggish form with a peck on the forehead and whispered words of comfort.

There is a flashing beep, something pointed he never noticed vacates his ear, and arms grip under his arm pits, lifting him briefly, before he's settled again.

Mike's lids fuse, blissfully contented, like they may never choose to sever their precious connection to dreamland.

With breaths that come that little bit easier, he wakes with an aggressive cough propped upright between Harvey's thighs, head lolling against his collarbone, while the older man pastes more vapour rub onto to his gloop-heavy chest. The cool balm pries his airways open with wafts of mint and feels good soaking into his nostrils and seeping down to his clogged-up lungs.

"Such a sleepy puppy," his Dad is murmuring. A pleasurable hand cards repeatedly through his hair. "So terribly, terribly sleepy."

The low voice is positively hypnotising, and Mike does the only possible thing.

He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

The next time he is awoken it is with the feeling of something warm and sticky poking at the entrance of his mouth, something syrupy being daubed along the pink tissue, and he licks inquisitively, only for a slender, verging on bony entity to breach his lips. Mike automatically attaches himself to the source, tongue twirling around cold skin. He frowns and accepts the gluey substance, swallowing on instinct.

It tastes slightly sweet and it's thick like honey.

 _Is_ it honey? It's hard to know, with his senses being so dulled. All he knows is that it's smooth and pleasant, and he wants more. His throat feels softer somehow, less raw. Not so tender.

"Mmm," Mike hums and squirms happily, only for the delicious delivery to suddenly pull out with a wet pop. Before he can whine, it's back, warmer than before. The honey has trickled down the length of the entity and he feels his jaw working rigorously to capture it all. He pays no heed to the sound of steady slurps and a far-off chuckle.

Mike tries to hang on to his captive, crushing the digit against the roof of his mouth, tight between his teeth, but it's too slippery and slides out with little resistance.

This time, he _does_ whine, but it seems his efforts were in vain, because the dollop of honey is soon replenished and his hands constrict around a cottony fabric that crinkles under his grip, determined to hold the supplier in place.

His tummy isn't full, but it's appeased for the moment, hunger no longer chomping for attention. Not only that, but the walls of his gullet may be scratchy, but they don't grate against each other at every swallow.

He falls asleep with Harvey's fingers in his mouth, sucking gently long after the sweet, stinging flavours are gone.

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_Thanks for reading._

_I'm pretty terrible at sickfics but, I don't know, I just can't stop writing Sick!Mike. Go figure._


	14. Extra: In Your Shoes

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**BONUS CHAPTER:**

In Your Shoes

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**A/N:** I thought, saying as it's been over a year now since _Can_ _'t Go Back_ was originally posted, that I may write a little special chapter. Probably the oddest I've ever done. But I had fun with it, and that's what counts, right? Similar to my one-shot _Heard You Crying_ , this is an alternate universe type thing and credit must go to PhoenixOnCloudNine (whose work I adore) for inspiring this.

 **Warning:** weirdness ahead. Proceed with caution.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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It's the same goddamn argument. The same one they have at least once a week.

Mike's yelling: _You have no idea what it's like._

Harvey's trying: _Tell me. Help me understand._

Hit refresh.

Play again.

Except this time Mike's storming off, telling him he needs to be alone, he needs his space, he needs to trust him - why can't Harvey trust him _just this once?_

And he's calling after him, lungs burning and voice hoarse, but he keeps on walking.

And it's clear that, wherever he's headed, he's not heading home.

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Pushing the door closed with his foot behind him, Harvey drops his keys into their 'lost and found' bowl of random goodies and shrugs off his coat, hanging it up and heading to the kitchen with a weary hand covering his face.

He stops dead at the sight of last night's exuberant activities.

Crayons, foam shapes, glue sticks, coloured pencils and rubber bands lie forsaken on the counter, and, swallowing hard at the picture Mike cobbled together while he prepared dinner - a damn _My Family_ portrait, of all things. One of his weekly assignments from Miss Connie that includes a beaming Harvey and Mike, with guest appearances from Donna and Jellybean - he chucks the supplies into the designated 'art bin' and tucks this between cookery books and their growing assemblage of photo albums on the shelf.

Somehow he finds himself in Mike's room picking up discarded clothes that have been trampled into the floor and straightening twisted bed sheets, so he pours himself a generous helping of scotch from a secret stash in a shoebox which he stores under his bed - brimming amber liquid that glows seductively as he knocks it back.

In his hurry, he'd grabbed a plastic beaker of Mike's and a disapproving sketch of Captain freaking America glares back at him as he lowers the cup and wipes his mouth.

Harvey rolls his eyes, tops up his drink, and flips off the national icon.

He welcomes the burn that sloshes down his throat, and - still nursing the makeshift tumbler - returns to the kitchen dangling his seasoned scotch between his fingers, with every intention of polishing off the bottle.

Between leisurely mouthfuls, he picks up stray toys, throws the boy's blankie over the back of the couch, plumps up cushions and arranges them neatly. He loads the dishwasher with a clatter, glances back at the clock.

Half-four.

Harvey drums his fingers along the counter.

He starts making homemade, veggie shepherd's pie from scratch.

It's probably not a brilliant idea to cook and drink simultaneously, but if there's one thing Harvey's learned since becoming a Dad, it's how to multitask, and now seems like as good a time as any to put the skill to use.

After gathering the ingredients - most of which he picked up down at the farmer's market last Saturday, go him, - and running the ripe produce under the faucet, Harvey sets about peeling the carrots, before finely dicing and quartering. Then he pushes the juicy chunks aside and robotically chops the fresh celery and garlic cloves with hard, brisk thunks. Pausing only to take another swig.

His eyes sting and he blames the onions.

Harvey heats butter in a pan, gently fries the veg, turns up the heat and cooks for another five minutes, before stirring in herbs.

Did he mention how much he hates cooking? Probably not. But right now, it's hell.

By the time the lentils have finished simmering and Harvey's finished pulverizing the potatoes, with the added butter and milk, it's ten past five, so he dumps in the tomato puree, empties the mash into the dish, and scatters some cheese over the top, before standing back and thrusting a hand through his hair.

Harvey slowly expels a jaded breath, feeling so unbelievably heavy.

He doesn't even like shepherd's pie.

Staring at the wholesome food, Harvey is gripped by the sudden urge to toss it out. Instead, he takes out a zippered bag and a Tupperware container, which he messily fills, before shoving them into the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Blissfully out of sight.

Out of mind, right?

Twenty-to-six.

Mike's not coming home for dinner.

Dropping down onto the stool, Harvey replenishes his plastic freaking Captain America cup and downs it in one go. He coughs, shakes it off.

Immediately pours himself another.

This one he cradles in his hand, intending to relish every measured sip as he wanders out onto the balcony, where the wind whisks around him so fluently and yet so solidly that it feels as if he's wrapped in an ice-cold embrace he doesn't know he'd want to escape.

He thinks back on their daily routine.

On spraying under the bed at night with 'Monster Deterrent' (otherwise known as water), and forcing his fourteen year old into time-outs masked as the ever-so-harmonious Quiet-time. On cutting the crust off his toast every morning, and indulging in frequent nightly check-ins that are as comforting as they are inexorable. Passing peeks through the crack in his door, because how can he possibly sleep without first confirming his Mike is safe? How can he obviate that?

Before he knows it, Harvey's fingers are constricting around the cool beaker and he's robbing swig after swing from his dwindling supply - great, voracious gulps that leave him woozy and unsteady, having to grip the railing to keep himself grounded _here_ and _now,_ and not ten blocks away where he _**left**_ Mike.

He doesn't feel inebriated; this isn't oblivion.

If anything, his head hurts not from the alcohol, but from all of this gruelling _thinking_ , and he tries to blink the double vision away, to shut out his uncertainties, but all he can see is Mike - toddler and teenager - colliding and dividing and fusing and defusing, bouncing off the other.

Neither figure belongs within the same headspace, never mind the same being. So how is it that they so perfectly coincide in his mind, where he cannot separate them?

Most of the time, he's pretty good at gauging how best to approach the situation, but sometimes Harvey is overwhelmed by his own concerns and impulses, and sometimes he's bound to be out of his depth, he's only human. Mike's a beautiful riddle. There is no rule book, or helpful guideline.

One minute he's whining about tediously easy, college-level math homework, the next he's spellbound watching buoyant, preschooler's cartoons.

Harvey wouldn't want to have it any other way. Wouldn't change Mike for the world. But that doesn't change the fact that Mike's not the only one who…sort of got screwed over. In terms of losing a little self-control, anyway.

Where Mike is unstable, he must be steady. Whether Mike is alright or in trouble, Harvey is guaranteed to worry.

He doesn't know how to keep a tight rein on himself and his actions the way he did before. He'll fuss, he'll coddle - regardless of whether it's necessary.

Teenager or toddler?

 _He_ _can't tell the difference_.

Not every time. Sometimes it's impossible.

Harvey's brain throbs and the sprawling skyline beyond him smudges, and it takes everything in his power not to grope for his cell and fire off a text to his stupidly innocent, stupidly vulnerable son, who he loves to death and trusts much less.

But he has to resist. For Mike's sake.

Pretend it doesn't make a difference whether Mike is at home like a good little boy or sitting out in the cold. So that he can haul his sorry, hung-over ass into work tomorrow and act like the world isn't tilting on it's axis when his son leaves and doesn't tell him where he's going. Like he really believes Mike is okay out there on his own.

He can salvage what's left of their close relationship so long as he stops treating Mike like an infant and gives him the benefit of the doubt every once in a while, finds a happy medium, of sorts. That way, he can act concerned as a parent…within reason. And maybe, if he's lucky, Harvey will succeed in not accidentally pushing the youngster away.

That's assuming he can keep himself and his worries in check, which won't be easy by any means. Bad habits are always tough to break.

But he can handle it. _Will_ handle it.

Lord knows, it beats the alternative.

Yet, even as he thinks this, Harvey's fingers twitch, inching towards his pocket.

Then he remembers that the battery on his phone is dead, and the inner dilemma is proven meaningless. He'd have to go out of his way to contact Mike now, which would definitely jeopardise his casual pretence - _Can_ _'t I remind him of his eight o'clock curfew? See that he's gotten food? Maybe he needs a ride home? What if he's lost? What if he's scared? Whatifwhatif_ whatif - if not put an end to it entirely.

So Harvey sticks his cell on to charge - _just in case_ , he tells himself - and leaves it within hearing distance. As if it doesn't matter. Like he doesn't feel the shittiest father in the world for doing so.

On the couch, he makes himself at home, collapsing onto his perfectly plumped cushions. May as well stay up until the boy's back ( _if_ he comes back). Not like he's going to fall asleep, anyway.

Taking another swill only to find it empty, Harvey jiggles the bottle to catch every last, scorching drop - anything to take the edge off - before tossing the useless bottle aside. But despite his best efforts, nothing can quench the aching remorse inside of him that bursts forth at the reminder of Mike's desperate face this afternoon, when he all but pleaded for a morsel of independence and Harvey didn't have a goddamn clue how to give it to him.

There's only one thing worse than somebody who refuses to care, Harvey ponders, eyes watering as he indulges in a jaw-popping yawn.

Someone who cares, and cares far too much.

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It's on some distant level that Harvey recognises he's dreaming.

"Wakey, wakey, Harvey," a soft, familiar voice draws him out of sleep, gently expunging the pleasant fog and grazing his mind with flecks of clarity, while a warm hand shakes his shoulder. His eyelids feel like they have weights attached to them; he can barely keep them open. "Come on. We've got to get going."

Something strange happens to his throat, then. An odd kind of tremble that exits in the sound of a whimper.

"I know, I know. I'm terrible and cruel and the biggest, meanest meanie ever, and you should _absolutely_ sue. How does next week sound? I'm sure you'll find grounds for a lawsuit based on the effects of prolonged sleep-deprivation. What is it? Two? Three times I've woken you up this week?" There's a quiet chuckle. "Totally despicable."

His limbs feel… _wrong_. Too sluggish and uncooperative. Bound in a soft material that unravels as he struggles against it. He frees his arms and feels his hands brush against something furry before it tumbles to the floor with a quiet thud.

Finally, Harvey succeeds in wrenching his eyes open and for a moment his vision is flooded with blue. Until they readjust and he realises he's staring into Mike's vivid, cerulean orbs, now clouding with concern.

The blood abruptly drains from his face, and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

Because this…this isn't _his_ Mike, with his angelic features, messy blonde hair, and sunny, spontaneous smile.

This Mike is sporting a crisp, tailored suit, patterned, cobalt tie, dark slacks, and a fricking _vest_ , of all things. He has _product_ in his slicked back hair, darker than he's ever seen before, and a sharp glint cutting into his gaze.

Breaths turning shallow, Harvey waits for this very strange, very real, very much _adult_ figure to disappear, and when he doesn't, only then does he croak, "W-wh…?"

Jesus, he must have drank much more than he thought.

"You fell asleep," Mike answers, as if that explains everything. Or, anything. "Long time coming, too." He grins and chucks a disorientated, flabbergasted Harvey under the chin, good-naturedly scolding, "No more caffeine for you." His tone is light, bouncy, and horrifically, insultingly lilting.

He pulls away, frowning. "Where…where are we?"

"At the office, silly," he chuckles, and reaches out to flatten Harvey's untidy bed-hair, sweeping it away from his eyes as soft, chestnut wisps fall into his face. But that can't be true, because this isn't Harvey's office, nor is it any office he recognises. Continuing his gentle petting, Mike's brow creases. He purses his lips and regards Harvey thoughtfully. "Remind me…you need to get your hair trimmed this week. It's getting a little on the scruffy side of life."

He rears back, stunned, and argues on instinct, "No, it's not-"

"Let's agree to disagree." Mike's fingers find their way into his hair again and he smiles fondly. "Hmm, someone's still a little sleepy, me thinks. Probably shoulda let you nap a little longer, huh, buddy? Yeah, sorry about that. S'been a rough day, hmm?"

Harvey feels himself scowl severely. "Why are you talking like th-?"

"No, no, no," Mike cuts in quickly, forehead tightening, and there he goes again! _Petting him_. "Not now, cookie. None of that. We'll talk about what happened later. Let's just get you home, okay? Never you worry about all that nasty stuff."

"What are y-?"

But then it's like someone poured ice-cold water down his spine and Harvey's indignation is brought to a jarring, winded halt because that voice…that _…voice_ …is the voice of a prepubescent, little boy.

Mouth swiftly going bone-dry, Harvey kicks away what's left of the blanket masking his body and is horrified to come face-to-face with the foreign, light blue t-shirt and washed out jeans that clothe his drastically diminished frame.

Under the thin tee and with his chest heaving, it is all-too clear how his ribcage juts out - just like he recalls from his youth. Growing up, Harvey was always slender, never having to watch what he ate, and it wasn't until junior year that he built up any muscle definition from working out non-stop at the gym. At the time, it was more about ejecting some of his anger and getting out of the house, away from his family for a few hours, but he'd been proud of the results. Now, his stomach isn't toned and firm; it's as flat as a damn pancake.

Legs bony, arms gawky, skin disgustingly pasty.

He isn't strong and lean, he's puny as shit.

Cold sweat breaking out on his face, Harvey grips his chin with rough, merciless fingers and it's baby-smooth and soft as fuck, and he's one second away from a full-blown meltdown when Mike suddenly cloaks him in a loving embrace, arms secure around his waist, as he calmly rubs his back.

His _skeletal_ back.

"Harvey, shh, it's alright. Stop. C'mon, remember your breathing exercises. It's alright. You aren't in any trouble, I promise. Come on. Deep breaths."

He pays no heed to the words, distorted by the trill ringing of his ears, and focuses all of his attention instead on the panicked, rapid movement of his lungs, and not upchucking all over Mike's exquisite suit. His fingertips tingle and numbness slinks up his arm, but all he can think of is Mike's hand on his lower torso, solid and strong and mortifying.

Every brush of his palm along the hard ridges of his spine makes Harvey flinch.

He feels outrageously self-conscious, wanting nothing more than to tear himself away and crawl under Mike's sturdy desk. It seems like a decent place to hide, all things considered - out of his adult son's line of sight. The same son who is currently dwarfing him, hugging him, the spacious slit between his arm and left side providing a tempting, snug spot to burrow-

 _Christ_.

Where are these urges _coming_ from?

What kind of twilight zone shit is this?

"This isn't working," Mike mutters from somewhere very far away, while the black spots in Harvey's sight expand, merge together like a dark sheet cast over his eyes. Sweat gathers at the nape of his neck, his lips adopt a bluish tint. He's cold yet clammy, dizzy and shaken. Tears swim in his vision and he just wants it to be _over_.

"Alright, Harv," Mike employs the most reassuring of tones, "We're gonna try out those breathing exercises I mentioned, 'member? Don't worry. You can copy me if you forget."

Easing the brown-haired teen off him and lifting his legs to sit cross-legged, Mike arranges Harvey's limbs into a similar position. He takes his small hands in his and squeezes them gently. "I need you to look at me, cookie. Can you do that? Eyes up here."

Slowly, feeling like it might kill him to do it, Harvey drags his gaze upwards, skittering around the bridge of his nose, and clenches his jaw when Mike smiles encouragingly at him.

"Okay. Good boy. We'll play a game, how's that? The balloon one. See your hands? Can you cup them for me in front of your face, like I am?" The condescending speech is more than a little off-putting - practically _begs_ Harvey to rebel in some form - but he has no other choice than to obey.

Desperate to make the burning gasps juddering his chest go away, he does as he's instructed, even if a large part of him yearns for nothing more than to beat the crap out of something.

"That's it," Mike praises. "Now, we wanna see who can make the biggest balloon. Fun, yeah? Easy as ABC. You've gotta take _big_ , _deep_ breaths through your nose. Like this. Then slowly breathe out through your mouth. See? Watch what happens." As Mike exhales bit by bit, his interlaced hands expand, as if he is blowing up an imaginary 'balloon.' It's pretty clever, Harvey has to admit. And maddening. Mostly maddening. "You wanna give it a try? See if you can beat me? I bet you could blow a _much_ bigger balloon than that. Go on. Show me."

Trembling and panting harshly, Harvey participates in the silly ploy and is pleasantly surprised to discover that it has an oddly calming effect. Feeling slowly returns to his hands and he flexes his fingers, testing them.

"Perfect!" Mike chirps, smiling like the stupid dork he is. "My balloon's blue. What colour's yours?"

Harvey's answering glare could slice through steel.

"Aw, come on!" He fake-pouts. Then, when that doesn't accomplish anything other than Harvey ignoring him in favour of breathing, Mike pretends to stroke a non-existent beard. "I bet I can guess. Is it…pink?"

Before he can stop himself, Harvey snorts.

Déjà vu hits him hard, leaving him more light-headed than ever.

"Darn it!" Mike slaps his knee and shakes his head in mock regret, "And I was _so sure_ , too!"

The faint arching of Harvey's mouth is met with a gigantic grin and Mike's mouth undertakes an enormous amount of strain in order to maintain his pursed lips. "Okay…so not pink. Gotcha. How 'bout…purple? Orange? Red? Come on, it's gotta be red! No? Mm…Green? Coral?"

Harvey refuses to play along, but, by God, he is persistent.

Mike shoots guess after guess, and soon enough, Harvey finds himself shaking his head and smothering a laugh with his hands like a little boy, wondering when exactly everything got completely turned on its head.

"I got it!" he declares after several minutes, clear, azure eyes so bright and full of life that if he concentrates on them and _nothing else,_ Harvey can forget that he's not his, that their roles haven't been bizarrely reversed. "Yours is blue, too, isn't it?"

Harvey inwardly rolls his eyes, but, after a split second of indecision, nods. If only to put an end to this harebrained game. More likely to see Mike beam at him again.

And irksome though they may be, the juvenile antics work. He's back to breathing normally and the tension in his body has mysteriously vanished. About damn time.

"I knew it!" Mike crows. Then there's that dazzling smile Harvey has so badly coveted; the one that allows him to stop agonising over their last fight, even only temporarily to bask in the warmth.

Mike acts out tipping his hat to him. "You, sir, have marvellous taste."

Any other day, Harvey would scoff, ' _Always_.'

But today, he's compelled to chew on his lip and drop his gaze, twisting his fingers, and the nervous actions instantly command Mike's attention. His smile slumps into a frown, expression losing all traces of humour.

"Harvey, cookie…" His tone is wary. "Did you take your meds today?"

The question takes him by surprise and Harvey barely contains his shock. His eyebrows soar upwards, eyes widening and mouth hanging slightly agape. He's saved only by the fact that his head is so lowered so far that Mike probably can only catch the barest glimpse of his face.

"I - I think so," Harvey mumbles and starts mangling the hem of his shirt before he can think twice, unable to meet Mike's eyes, tummy churning as the strangest of feelings passes through it, like the kind you get after telling a really naughty fib.

But how the hell should he know if he's telling the truth or not?

Can you even lie in a dream?

"You need to be more careful." Sighing, Mike moves to run a hand through his hair but stops himself before he can get it coated in the damn gel. "You know what the doctor said. These aren't the kind you can just pick and choose which days you're gonna take them. Did you tick it off on the chart I made you?"

Harvey wrings the soft material and half-shrugs. His silence speaks volumes.

"That means no."

"Means dunno."

"Harvey…"

" _Sorry_." Harvey's hands yank harder, becoming more vicious as they unleash their unease on this poor, unsuspecting top. "Forgot." Dammit, what is with his inability to form one grammatically correct sentence? He sounds like a blasted two-year old.

"Yeah." Mike exhales sharply, suddenly weary. "Yeah, I'm sorry. Now's not the time. But," he clasps his hands together in his lap and leans forward, "I want you to know that if managing your meds is too big a responsibility for you, it's nothing to be ashamed about. I can hang onto them for you, if you'd like? Dole them out at breakfast. Whaddya say?"

Something tells him an outright 'no' would not be accepted.

"Can…can I think about it?"

"Sure, cookie," Mike permits with an easy smile, tousling his hair as they both stand, causing Harvey to duck out of the away. His head feels woozy as he is forced to look _up_ at him. Damn, this is creepy. "Take as long as you need."

Evidently…teenage Harvey has issues with anxiety.

And Mike calls him 'cookie,' and takes him to his workplace that is so obviously _not_ Pearson Hardman, and participates in infantile games that he himself has been guilty of on more than one occasion.

Harvey stifles a hysterical titter. What more? Anything else he should know about before it comes back to bite him on the ass?

Apparently so, because just as they are about to go, Mike calls, "Don't forget Popcorn," and grabs something off the ground.

Harvey stills.

"Uh…wh-?"

A ball of fluff is thrust into his arms and Harvey can't help the groan that escapes him as he turns it over. Red-tainted fur, black paws and pointed ears. Warm, russet eyes, long white snout…Oh, please no.

Popcorn the Fox?

Hilarious. _Well done, brain_. Round of applause.

His subconscious sure does have a funny sense of humour.

Jesus… _Jesus_. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

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Mike's apartment, he's amazed to learn, is not the miserable dump he remembers.

It's intimate, quaint, spacey and situated in a surprisingly prestigious, upscale neighbourhood. Very homely. Very _Mike_.

He would wonder how on earth he could possibly afford such a nice place had he not recently discovered just what line of work Mike is currently in. He has no clue how he secured such a sought after, specialist job, but he's relieved he did. It's much…safer, in many ways, than their previous arrangement. He's happy for him.

"Harvey!" he hears Mike yell, voice touching on a groan, as he admires the scenery. "Come move your junk from the hallway before I frickin' move it for you!"

"What junk?" Harvey asks, vaguely offended, as he rounds the corner.

"This!" He angrily points to the little trail of clothes, sneakers and model race cars, propelled forward and dispersed in such a manner it doesn't take a genius to figure out the cause of Mike's ire. It's like the considerate, down-to-earth chum who takes everything in stride from earlier has evaporated, leaving behind an annoyed, disapproving authority figure that Harvey doesn't like the look of. Guess he's not a complete pushover, after all. "I tell you the same thing day in and day out, but you never seem to listen. Well, guess what? I've had enough. So either you pick it up, or I'm scrapping all of it. Got it?"

"Alright, alright," he grumbles, bending down to sloppily scoop the mess up in his arms. "Calm down."

"Also, before I forget - Marcus is coming next Tuesday, so you better be sure to tidy your room. I mean, have you seen it lately? I thought you were supposed to be the tidy one?"

Harvey dumps the shit on the floor.

"W-wait," he splutters, eyes wide, disbelief splayed across his features yet again. He speaks slowly, testing the words on his tongue and trying to develop a fondness for the taste. "Marcus… _my_ Marcus…is coming _here_?"

"Yeah. There a problem?"

Apparently there's not supposed to be.

But considering they haven't spoken in, oh, two years or so, then, yeah - there's a problem, alright.

"No…no." He shakes his head and swallows hard, thoughts utterly muddled. They made up? How? _When_? Will the madness ever end? "Just surprised, is all."

"But…" Mike squints at him and tilts his head to one side. "You knew he was planning to fly in when he found the time off work. After all the skyping you've been doing lately, he's really excited to see you. I thought you'd be excited too."

"I - I am," he virtually whispers while trapping the sleeve of his sweatshirt between his teeth and tugging, hating this, hating the tentative, fidgety mess he's been reduced to. All this uncontrollable mumbling is seriously getting on his last nerves. "I j-just wasn't expecting it so…so soon."

But the only thing worse than his humiliating awkwardness is the unavoidable way Mike's face contorts with pity.

"Oh, buddy," he murmurs, gently removing the fabric from the teen's mouth - and how many times has Harvey performed the exact same manoeuvre? Eighty? Ninety? _One hundred?_ He does it so often it's all but instinctive. "You don't have to be nervous."

His jaw extends, almost petulantly, and the defensive action is so acutely familiar given that he sees it every damn day when he tells Mike to stop doing stupid shit like jumping off the couch and 'borrowing' his ties to use as slings for his injured stuffed animals. "I'm _not_."

It's terrifying how close he almost comes to stamping his foot. That would be a new low he doesn't know if he could ever bounce back from. Instead of smirking whenever Mike gives in to the temptation, he'd be reminiscing with a revolted grimace and thanking God that it's not him this time.

"Are you sure? Because I don't think your face got the memo."

"Did," he argues - purely for the sake of arguing.

"Mhm," Mike hums pensively. Then, catching him completely off-guard, he smirks, "Does Daddy have a moody little boy on his hands?"

And that's the final straw for Harvey, who already feels like he's going to burst into tears any second.

He's tired and off-balance and fed up with emotions he can't hope to control, not in this lifetime.

He and Marcus are on honest-to-God speaking terms, Mike is a swanky investment banker and he won't stop talking down to him, and the sensation of his protruding spine scuffing against his plain tee is ruthlessly, deliriously mocking, and he's clenching and unclenching his fists trying to deal with all of the anxiety and confusion and sadness that prickles under his skin.

He wants his lovable puppy. He wants to be _big_.

He doesn't _like_ this dream.

He doesn't like this version.

Grinding his teeth in an effort to stamp out the shuddering of his lips, Harvey dips his chin 'til skin meets skin and turns the other way, blinking briskly.

Needing to make his escape, Harvey sniffs and swipes at his nose with his sleeve as he forces out, "Gonna lie - lie d-down."

His sentences are stupid and cracked and incomplete, and this is all too much for him to take in.

"I think that's a good idea," Mike says gently, rubbing his shoulder in comfort, and even though it was _his_ idea in the first place, it still feels like another way in which he's being told what to do. Jeez, he wasn't asking for _permission_. "You rest while I throw some dinner together."

That simple interaction bears far too many similarities to theirs of the past and he can't stand it.

It's easier when Harvey doesn't consider _them_ to be the same.

This isn't his son, nor is it his former associate. This is just some guy who looks the same and acts the same and won't stop treating him like a silly little kid.

Harvey carefully stretches across the couch where there's no Popcorn or Blankie or childish item in sight, and stubbornly convinces himself that he doesn't need them, just as he's sure Mike convinced himself before him.

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* * *

Dinner is so terrible, it doesn't bear regurgitating.

Let's just say that when Harvey refused to eat the bowl of spaghetti Mike had prepared, unable to muster up much of an appetite, Mike fussed for a little - 'Sorry, is it too hot? Let it cool. A minute, tops, or it'll get too cold.' - before ultimately deciding that maybe the strings of pasta would be more appealing as a dinosaur, or a truck, or a star, or a smiley face.

Or whatever goddamn shape he could abstractedly create.

Naturally, he encouraged Harvey to do the same (in between bites, of course), and by the end, his stomach was bloated and full, so, yeah - it served its purpose.

Unfortunately, that purpose left his fingers smothered in sauce, along with his face and his hair and _behind his ears_ , and he had to _sit there_ while Mike chuckled dotingly and daubed at him with some cold wipes.

Afterwards, he slinked off to change into his nightclothes and hide under the covers in his bedroom, where it is warm and safe and he doesn't have to deal with anything if he doesn't want to.

The only downside is, he can't escape from his new boyish figure and has spent a good ten minutes silently contemplating the extreme slenderness of his wrists, before examining his sunken stomach and then watching the movement of his ribcage as he breathed steadily in and out. He didn't dare peek down below.

To distract himself, Harvey glances around the room and imagines the chain of events that would have lead him here, to this moment.

The walls are painted a pale blue, _everything_ is car-themed, with collectable toy vehicles scattered across the hardwood floor, inside shoes, under the bed, in and around a gigantic race track that is _crammed_ to the brim with cars. The pillow cases and sheets are decked with them, as are the navy curtains. Not to mention, the lampshade is _shaped like one_. The rug is even printed with a little town made up of roads and gas stations and stop signs to drive upon. It seems he has a bit of an obsession.

His prized record collection lines the bookshelves, though there are several stacked on the computer desk and out of place between rows of actual kiddie books. A baseball bat is propped up behind the door and there's a faded glove buried under his old Harvard hoodie. So he's playing again, then.

There are framed photos of himself and Mike and far too many classic films, along with a few other recognisable knickknacks. Many of which are signed basketballs he identifies as favourites from his office.

His _old_ office.

God, that's depressing. He doesn't want to think about that either.

_Moving on._

There's also the matter of the little bombshell Mike had dropped earlier, but he's not too keen on dwelling on that. Best to ignore it altogether. Unless he can provide a solution.

"Your brother's got half an hour before his next meeting," Mike had told him, popping round the doorframe on his way to the living room. "He said he'll skype in about ten minutes."

That was over an hour ago.

He tries to cook up ways of weaselling his way out of it, without much success. He's too exhausted to come up with anything solid and too jittery with anticipation to actually doze off; he keeps having to wipe sweaty hands down his pyjama bottoms and has to regulate his breathing on more than one occasion. Needless to say, Harvey really regrets not taking that medication.

But mostly he's just worn-out.

And on that note, isn't he meant to have _more_ energy as an adolescent, not less? He feels like he's run a marathon and all he's done is lie around and sleep all day.

" _Harvey_." His thoughts are interrupted by Mike's inevitable call. "Big bro wants to talk to you!"

He shuffles under the duvet and pokes his head out to holler, "In a minute."

"No. _Now_."

Not ready to give up his new comfort just yet, Harvey heaves a sigh and swings his legs around to touch the ground, clutching Popcorn's bushy tail and dragging his feet to the living room, where Mike and Marcus are patiently waiting.

At the image of his little brother on the screen smiling hugely at him, however, Harvey freezes up - pupils blown wide and terrified.

"Finally," Mike moans when he appears. "Took you long enough. C'mon." He thumps the couch. "Come be sociable."

But he can't help but dither, squirming uncomfortably in place and curling and uncurling his toes, before Mike rolls his eyes and yanks him downwards, and that's when everything goes to hell.

In a total abandonment of self-control, having been fighting tooth and nail against the very thing since the instant he opened his eyes that afternoon, he submits to the treacherous compulsion to plant himself against the former associate's side, draping across his shoulder and peeking out from his comfortable vantage point, where he can turn and hide, nuzzling into the warmth of Mike's neck.

"Hey, there, little man." His brother's voice is hushed and gentle, crackling over the poor connection as the picture smears, then corrects itself. "Don't you look cosy. Warm as toast, huh, kiddo?" He grins indulgently, prepared to humour him, ready to listen to grand tales of spaghetti smiley faces and race cars spinning around the intricate track. It's sickening. "What have you been up to?"

 _Kill me now,_ Harvey groans on the inside. He doesn't know what to do, and quite frankly, right now he's feeling too drained and _shy_ to attempt any meaningful conversation. Incapable of sustaining eye contact, Harvey noses against Mike's collar, to his tolerant amusement.

Man, this is painful.

It's bad enough that Mike is acting like this and is witnessing _him_ acting like this - but Marcus, too? How much more of this does he have to suffer? Next thing he knows Donna will land brandishing a freaking pacifier.

"What, do I have to do all the talking, too?" Marcus grumbles good-naturedly, pulling his sluggish gaze back to the monitor, which he realises he's been absently stroking (over his brother's _face_ , too, ugh), appalled by the reflection of himself at the bottom of the screen - rosy-cheeked and sleepy in his cotton PJ's, snuggled up against Mike and cradling Popcorn in his arm.

"Sorry," Mike apologies on his behalf as he draws Harvey onto his lap so that he can no longer shrink away, keeping an arm locked around his waist and the tablet steady in front of them, balanced in one hand. "He's a little off today."

"I can see that." Marcus frowns. "What's up?"

"There was another 'incident' at school this morning, wasn't there, buddy?" Mike asks rhetorically, joggling Harvey on his knee and rolling his eyes as he gives a tired whine and pushes back against his chest, rubbing his eyes and seeming frustrated and unsure what to do with himself.

"Ah," his brother makes a hum of understanding, "You clock 'em in the jaw or go for the nuts?"

"Both," Mike answers, when he doesn't.

"Can't say I didn't see it coming. Wanna talk about it?" It's surprising - and somewhat pleasing - that he continues to address Harvey despite his total lack of engagement in the conversation.

Harvey grumpily shakes his head, in that moment despising his brother for getting in contact so late into the evening instead of at a sociable hour when he's in a more agreeable mood and better equipped to 'fake' it; Mike for dragging him into this insane video call where he can't quit making a fool out of himself, and himself for passively allowing it all to happen.

"You wanna talk at all?"

He whines again and loosely shrugs, because how's _he_ supposed to know what he wants, only for Mike to start gently massaging his stomach and murmur, "I'm really sorry about this, Marcus. You know how he gets when he's tired."

"Don't worry about it. Poor little guy looks wrecked. I'll let him go and catch some precious shut-eye. Same time tomorrow?"

"Uh, maybe a bit earlier, if you can swing it? Though he has been out of sorts all day, mind you. Hopefully Harvey'll be back to his bright, handsome self tomorrow, right, bud?" It's unclear whether or not this is actually directed at him, though Mike does smooth his hair down again and smile over at him, so maybe.

"Hmph," he grunts, unwilling to dignify that with an answer either way. Mike pats his tummy in a possible act of contrition, but then again, it could simply be another means of pacifying him.

Asshole.

"Don't I at least get a goodbye kiss?"

Excuse me - a _what_? Do they expect him to smooch a computer screen or something?

Oh, hell, no.

He's stooped low enough for one day, thank you very much. Dream or not, there is no way he is going along with that.

Forcefully shaking his head, Harvey is unable to formulate more than a grouchy, "Nuh-uh."

"Not even from Popcorn?" his brother wheedles, obviously itching for some show of affection from Harvey, who has to stop himself from wriggling as he answers.

"He's too tired."

"Oh, he is, is he? That's a shame," Marcus grins, as if to say, _ooh_ , we're onto three word sentences now. "And are you? Too tired, that is. To give your poor, dear brother a teensy weensy goodnight kiss?"

He knows he's being played here, logically. But the disastrously simple, woebegone expression which then dominates his brother's face doesn't sit well with him and Harvey finds himself twiddling his thumbs so that he won't be tempted to do anything else with them and heaving a put-upon sigh, before grumping, "Do I _have_ to, Marco?"

"You don't _have_ to," he parrots back in amusement, with an honorary eye roll that brings him right back to their chummy, bickering childhood. Except he was usually the one doing the eye rolling. "But it would be nice."

With a vicious glower and maintaining a tight clasp on Mike's forearm for leverage, he leans down and quickly pecks the screen, making sure his look of utter discontent remains within the frame.

"There," he states, like, _happy now?_ He haughtily sticks out his chin. "Now you can leave me alone. That's enough love to do you for the whole year."

Mike snorts and his grip around Harvey's middle tightens in an affectionate almost-hug, while Marcus beams. "Thanks, Harv," he laughs, "Love you, too. Though if you think for one second I'm not going to squeeze you silly when I get there next week, you're an idiot. You're small enough for me to toss _you_ around this time, short stuff. There's going to be _so_ much tickling. You're gonna collapse in a giggle-induced coma."

"No, I won't," Harvey says primly, not seeming to realise his gentle deterioration as he remarks, "There's no such thing."

"Is too. And I'll tell you another thing. Only your Dad's triple chocolate cookies will be able to wake you up."

Harvey smacks down on his knee and huffs. "You're _lying_ to me."

"Am not. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"You _are_."

"Would I lie to you?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"No, I wouldn't. And I've gotta say, I'm hurt you'd think that."

"Liar. You say I'm gu- guil-gull-" Harvey cuts off, frustrated, yanking on his hair as his tongue can't quite wrap around the word. He feels Mike carefully release his grip around the brown locks and rub small circles into his back, and he leans into the touch before he can question the decision.

Marcus' face instantly softens, painfully so. "I don't think you're gullible, Harvey."

To his shock, he feels his eyelashes getting moist. He can't even pinpoint why he's so upset. He just is.

"It's okay," Mike soothes, pitching a regretful smile to the camera and bouncing him lightly as Harvey slumps against him, totally spent. "He's just tired, huh, buddy? You're just tired, aren't you? Time for ni-nights, I think." Harvey should slap him up the back of the head for the sickly sweet voice he embraces, but as it is, he hasn't got the energy. "Say goodnight to Marcus, cookie."

"N-night, Marco," he yawns. Harvey thinks he waves, but he can't be sure. That might be Mike using his hand.

Marcus' smile is kind, tainted by something Harvey can't quite place, but leaves him feeling warm inside. "Sleep tight, little man. Chat to you tomorrow, okay? We've gotta make plans for next week. I wanna take you down to the batting cages at some stage. For old time's sake."

"M'excited." For some reason, he feels the desperate need to reassure him of that.

"Yeah. Me, too, kiddo." Marcus looks sufficiently satisfied. "Me, too."

It's only once Mike has tapped on the End call icon and the screen goes dark that the awareness of his behaviour sinks in and Harvey glances down to where he's still holding onto the ghastly fluff ball, Popcorn, and slowly slides off Mike's lap, stuffed animal falling to the floor with a muted thump as his rigid grasp goes slack.

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* * *

There's something wrong with Harvey, but Mike can't work out what could have caused this about-turn. After his video chat with his brother, he's sort of…shut down. There's been no protest over being sent to bed, no problems picking a book, not a single story request. He hasn't spoken since.

Alarm bells are going off in Mike's head.

Harvey toes off his shoes and slowly climbs into bed.

He lies quietly, and it's _too_ quiet and too still. Devoid of the typical sounds of sock-clad rubbing against each other and steady suckling to break up the monotony. Mike didn't realise how normal such sounds were until he pauses, wondering why they're not there.

His face is tight, blank, and a frown tugs at Mike's mouth at the barrenness of his bed, where he holds himself stiffly as if lying there for the very first time.

"Harvey…" he begins, inexplicably cautious, "Where's Popcorn?"

"Dunno."

Startled and with a flutter of panic in his chest, Mike probes, "What do you mean 'you don't know?'" Oh, God. If he's _lost_ him - "Why isn't he here with you?"

"He's around, alright?" Harvey snaps, eyes flashing, "In the living room or something. Like I said, I _don_ _'t_ _know_."

"Do you want me to go look for him? I'll bet he's feeling awfully frightened and confused right about now. You wouldn't want him to think he's been abandoned, would you?"

"It's a dumb stuffed animal, M-Dad," Harvey catches himself at the last second, wincing, and Mike stills. He thinks his heart stops for a beat or two. "Pretty sure they don't have feelings. You don't have to round up a search party. Probably fallen behind the couch or something. Who the heck cares?"

 _You_ , he wants to shout, wrenching back his hair so hard he's surprised he doesn't rip a clump out. **_You_** _care._

But he doesn't. Because he's still stuck on the fact that Harvey almost called him Mike for the first in months, stuck wondering who in the world this person is, this cold, closed-off person who is _not_ his son.

"And your blankie? What happened to it?"

He shrugs, rolling over onto his side to face the wall. "Should be there…somewhere."

"Would you like me to tuck you in?" Mike asks, already knowing the answer.

"No, thank you." His voice is polite, but from the side profile of his face, his jaw is extremely tight.

"Okay. That's alright." He backs away, smiling sadly. "Goodnight, cookie."

"'Night."

He takes care closing the door, knowing it's not over. Mike wisely obtains the baby monitor from the master bedroom and checks that the two are still connected, that Harvey hasn't tampered with the pair again, before carting it into the living room with him. He flops down onto the couch, landing on something squashy. Mike tugs Popcorn out from underneath him, stares into the large, glossy brown eyes, and then sets him aside in favour of flicking through his files.

Then…he waits.

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* * *

It's almost eleven and Mike can still hear the sheets crinkling as Harvey tosses and turns. At the first hint of a sniffle, he can no longer bear to sit back and do nothing, and he stands and makes his way to the boy's room.

He raps on the door once, twice, knowing how much he values his privacy, before pushing it open all the way and frowning in concern.

"Harvey? You alright?"

Harvey quickly wipes his eyes. "M'fine. Go away."

"You're clearly not fine, I can see you're feeling sad, cookie. What can Daddy do to help? Would you like a cuddle?"

"No, I would not like a _cuddle_ ," he spits with a sneer - disgusted because he very much would. He curls in on himself with the overpowering need. "Do I look like I want a damn cuddle?"

" _Harvey_ -" Mike gasps, but doesn't get the chance to finish before he butts in.

"Don't 'Harvey' me. I'm not a kindergartner. I can say damn. Hell, I can say whatever the fuck I want to."

"What gotten _into_ you?" he demands in bewilderment. "Talk to me, buddy. You can't keep these things to yourself. They'll eat you up inside; they already are. Is this about what happened at school?"

If he wasn't troubled before, Mike certainly is now. Usually he has to pry him off him come bedtime and now he's refusing hugs? If you'd told him eight months ago, he'd have never have believed it, but Harvey Specter is a closet snuggler. He's very affectionate to those he loves, even if he's not overly vocal about it.

He can't always say it, but he can _show_ it.

Mike gets about one 'love you' a month, and it's generally after he has a massive panic attack during the middle of the night and ends up in his bed, trembling and upset and totally shattered, shaking uncontrollably in Mike's arms. One those occasions, the words don't feel like an achievement; they're whispered in such a small voice they just break his heart.

"No," Harvey pouts. _Pouts_ , for God's sake. Scowling and everything. Nothing is within his control anymore. "Not 'bout earlier."

He doesn't want to get into that right now. Especially when he doesn't actually know what went down.

But the denial comes naturally.

"Isn't it?" Mike counters, raising a dubious brow, before sighing and shoving a frustrated hand through his hair. "You can't keep getting into fights, Harvey - we've been over this. I know high school is a big challenge and you're going through a lot of changes right now - we never thought this was going to be easy. But this? Your behaviour's been unacceptable. You _cannot_ go 'round punching every guy who rubs you the wrong way. How many times must I emphasise this? I'm worried about you, Harvey. Your teachers are saying you've been quiet and withdrawn in class, avoiding the cafeteria at lunch, uninterested in interacting with your peers…" He scrubs a hand over his head, mussing up his hair even further, and grimaces. "Is there anything I should know about?"

Harvey is flabbergasted by the insinuation. He's almost speechless.

"I - I'm not…I'm not getting _bullied_."

"You're not? Because you know you can tell me anything."

"I'm telling the truth!" he insists, stunned that Mike would even consider it, never-mind _doubt_ his assertions. He cringes when his voice breaks. "No-one is picking on me!"

"Good. That's good." Mike nods, blowing out a breath. He's clearly relieved - and baffled. "Then…what is it? Are you finding it difficult to fit in?"

This cannot be happening. He may not win any popularity contests - but surely he's not that far down on the food chain?

"I don't know," he flounders, "Maybe?"

"Well, I don't mean to point out the obvious, but acting out is probably not the best way to go about making friends. You need better coping mechanisms. You have to see this isn't working."

It's…strange, to say the least, to see Mike in this parental 'counsellor' position. He's really rose to the occasion. Matured where Harvey has regressed.

He'd be proud if he weren't so affronted.

"It's not that bad- "

"How many times have I had to pull you out of class this semester because of the difficulties managing your anxiety? You can't blame me for suspecting something was up."

Other Harvey can't, maybe - doesn't sound as if he has any legs to stand on, at this point - but _he_ definitely can. It's all too absurd.

Looking much older than his years, Mike pushes out a heavy sigh, and Harvey feels a sudden stab of guilt. He doesn't know which he hates more: the stressful sound itself or the fact that he's responsible for it.

"Harvey, I know all of this has been hard on you, and you miss work more than anything. I don't want to belittle that. I just…I don't like seeing you like this."

"My school work-"

"Has been fantastic, yes," he agrees, "But grades aren't the most important thing. _You_ are." Poking his tummy, Mike's lips expand when Harvey gives an artless, reflex chortle. "I want _you_ to be happy. That means no more fighting, tough guy," he continues, half-laughing, "Focus on the good things, and we'll find another way to channel all that frustration. I heard the baseball team downtown is looking for new members."

Harvey very nearly smirks, because this is almost the exact same thing he'd said to _his_ Mike.

"Really?" he says dryly, lifting a brow.

"Oh, yeah," Mike nods, "I talked to the couch, got a feel for the place. I think you'd like it."

"If you think it'll help…sure." He shrugs. "I'll give it a try."

"That's all I will ever ask of you. That, and that you _talk_ to me when things are getting out of hand. I'm always here for you. Remember that."

Harvey swallows weakly. "I will."

Because faced with that burning look in Mike's eyes, how could he ever forget?

"Fantastic," Mike claps, and just like that, the intensity of the moment dissipates. "Glad that's settled. Now…how about a story?"

If he refuses, Mike will only worry, so Harvey says yes, mentally rolling his eyes and then pausing to wonder how many times his puppy pulled the wool over his eyes with the very same trick.

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* * *

"Can I ask you something?" he murmurs, long after he guesses he was supposed to have fallen asleep, voice low and so very young.

"Anything."

"Why... _did_ you take me in?" It's the one thing he's most curious about. "After the lab accident. Quit your job, move across town, agree to all of…this. Why put yourself through it?"

"Harvey…" Mike grimaces, "We've been through this-"

"Please," he presses, and something in his gaze as he looks up from his comfortable position under the blonde's arm causes Mike to sag a little in defeat. "I need to know."

"Besides the fact it was the right thing to do?"

"You are way too young to have a teenager," Harvey reminds him, and if he sounds a tad reproaching, well, that's only to be expected. Old patterns shining through. "What possessed you to think this was a good idea?"

"Lots of things, actually. Donna, your shared history - now _there's_ a bad idea. And Jessica, as you know, didn't exactly have the time to dedicate to an…um, unique kid like you. Not that she was ever too keen on being a mom in the first place. She's more comfortable on the sidelines. I might not be the obvious choice, but I was the most eager one. And I have _never_ regretted the decision."

"S'weird."

"A little," Mike admits, "At first, anyway. Why the trip down memory lane?"

"No reason." His attempts to lie falling through, Harvey curses, remembering the many times Mike pulled the same shit on him. It never worked then. Why would it now?

"Really?" he smiles, amused. "Back to telling porkies so soon? And silly me thought we were getting somewhere earlier." He squeezes his shoulder encouragingly. "Be honest. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Do you seriously think I'm gonna fall for it? After all that talk about how young I am? C'mon. You haven't brought that up in months." Mouth twisting in thought, he speculates, "Did someone say something? I saw some kids glancing our way when I picked you up the other day. Feel free to tell them I'm, like, your cool older cousin or super awesome uncle, or, hey, even your personal driver - whatever. So long as I get to wear a black hat, I'd be totally cool with that. Though it'd be slightly awkward when I turn up for school events."

"No, no. Nothing like that. I was…" He pauses, squirming a little. "Curious."

"Curious? Oh - well." He waves a hand and scratches the bridge of his nose. "Sounds to me like you're feeling a bit…unsure, maybe? Correct me if I'm wrong, of course. But before I had so many prospects and now you feel like since I've been lugged with you, you'll screw that up. Well - don't. Because as far as I'm concerned, my life was shit before you came into it and it's only ever gotten better since. _Weirdness_ and all." He smiles wryly. "I'd take this over mindlessly smoking pot any day of the week, which - for future reference - is really bad and scary and you shouldn't come within ten feet of it, ever."

Harvey scarcely stops himself from rolling his eyes.

"I owe you so much, Harvey," Mike says seriously, "Nothing I ever do will make up for what you've done for me. For what you saved me from."

"So…it's about paying off a debt?" And for some reason, Harvey's voice wobbles and he feels his eyes grow hot and wet. Now he's back to this emotional shit. He's gotten so _beyond_ sick of it by now.

"No! No, _of course not_." He hugs him tighter in reassurance, rubbing up and down the length of his arm. "We're family, Harvey. No matter what."

And they are.

"And, besides," adds Mike with a smirk, "Something tells me, you would have done the same for me if the situation were reversed."

Harvey's lips twitch. "That I would."

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* * *

"Dad? Dad, wake up. I bought you a banana milkshake. Apparently it's good for hangovers. I read that online somewhere. Mightn't be the most reliable, but I figured it was worth a shot."

"Ugh," he moans, turning his head away and squinting. " _What-?"_

"Here. Got some aspirin, too."

Harvey peels back his eyelids to cautious slits, then opens them fully to discover that he's wrapped in Mike's fuzzy, blue blankie and Jellybean is lying upside down, flopped over his thigh. The scene is so eerily similar to his dream that for a moment he almost pukes - though that could be because of his pounding headache and the stirring nausea settled in his gut - but it's only seconds later that a timorous voice breaks through his panic, "I brought you Blankie 'case you got cold and Jellybean 'cause he tells the best jokes. He always makes _me_ feel better when I'm feeling sad and 'ucky."

"I'm not sad, Mike," Harvey rasps, heaving himself up into a sitting position, and _wow_ …his breath reeks of scotch.

"You _are_ , Daddy," he says forlornly, anxious blue eyes drilling into his. "That's why your eyes are so puffy."

"No…," he says slowly, forcing a puzzled frown. "I thought my eyes were _fluffy_." Smiling as Mike giggles at his ridiculousness, he adds, "Thank-you for Blankie and Jellybean. I appreciate it."

"And the milkshake?"

"That, too. What a lovely, thoughtful gesture."

"Would you like some now?" Mike asks brightly. Bless his heart.

"I suppose a little wouldn't hurt…" Harvey grants. Provided he doesn't feel the urge to toss any chunks, that is. He doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Raising the straw to his lips and cautiously taking a sip, he's pleasantly surprised to find it's not half-bad. It's thick and sweet, but he doesn't mind it as much as he thought he would. It's about ninety-percent ice-cream, anyway. "It's delicious," he says sincerely. "Thank-you, puppy."

Mike beams.

"C'mere." Harvey opens out his arms and lets Mike sink into them. "Daddy needs a hug." He closes his arms compactly around his son and inhales deeply, planting a chaste, squelchy kiss on his cheek.

Sure, the time difference was only ever conjured up inside his head, but…he missed him.

He tugs him down fully onto his lap, not wishing to relinquish his hold just yet, and Mike plays with Harvey's fingers and cuddles into him, and after a few glorious minutes of peace, murmurs, "I'm sorry about yesterday. It was stupid. I overreacted."

"No, _I_ overreacted," Harvey corrects. "I know, I can be…a bit much, at times. And I'm sorry for that - I _am_. Daddy -" he cuts off, inhaling slowly, " _I_ forget, how strong you are sometimes. I worry." He "I'm sorry. I never give you enough credit. I know that now."

"Yeah, but…" he shrugs, "You're my Dad. You're supposed to give me hell and sweat the small stuff. I need you to." Mike smirks. "…Sometimes."

"I still feel bad."

"So do I. I mean, look at you. How much have you had to drink?"

"A little."

"So, a lot."

"Now wait just a minute. I don't have to answer to you." _Anymore_. "Why are _you_ worrying about me getting drunk for the first time in God knows how many months?" Harvey tuts, "It's not like I intend to do this every weekend."

"I worry about you worrying about me," Mike fires back, equally helpless. "Especially when it drives you to do stuff like this."

"Well, I worry about you worrying about me worrying about you."

"Vicious cycle."

Sighing, Harvey rubs his back, kisses his temple, and mutters, "Seems that way."

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe he'll always worry and maybe Mike will have every right to storm away.

But he's not going to beat himself up over it. Not for only ever wanting the best for his son, not when he genuinely can't help it anymore than Mike can. And maybe this is how he's supposed to be, how they're lives were intended to be, as a single father and only child. He's done berating himself over his own nature. It isn't fair when he's forever reassuring Mike that what he is - what _they_ are - is okay.

Time to practise what you preach and all that.

Harvey needs to relax. Their petty spats are only minor little bumps in the road, not the end of the world. Mike will survive his lengthy lectures and excessive panic; he'll dial it down a notch when he can. _If_ he can.

All Harvey can do is his best. Try to accept what he can't change.

He can't squeeze himself in somewhere he doesn't fit.

He wouldn't want to. He's happy right where he is.

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_Thank you for reading._

_This got long. I had so many things to cram in, and argh, I've been so tempted to do a spin-off story with Marcus and Harvey reconciling and Mike being all cute and fatherly, because I just loved writing this so much. But it would be super weird...Too weird. I do hope you guys enjoyed this, despite said weirdness, if you even made it to the end._

_This is probably the only chapter that doesn't feature my beloved Jellybean. I may have to dedicate a sole chapter to the poor dear getting lost or something just to make peace with it. Although, now I'm gonna miss Popcorn…_


	15. Extra: Lift Your Spirits

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**BONUS CHAPTER:**

Lift Your Spirits

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**A/N:** I've had a really tough time lately. A recent passing in my family has made wanting to write fluff-pieces very difficult and my depression and anxiety have once again gotten really bad. All of which, you'll notice, have heavily influenced this chapter. Regardless, this was something I wanted to get out there, even if it is a little all over the place. Sorry if it's not up to scratch. Comments would be much appreciated.

Here is my little Christmas gift to all you lovely readers.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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It goes without saying: Christmas is not his favourite time of the year.

It's not even a little bit enjoyable. In fact, Mike muses, it's probably up there with all the classic 'Most Dreaded Days of the Year' - like the anniversary of his parents' deaths and their respective birthdays. Definitely deserves a place in the top ten. Hasn't quite earned the first place, but that's only because that coveted spot has long ago been secured by that little known accident after one drink too many that sent his whole world spiralling out of control.

As far as Mike's concerned, Christmas, and all related holidays, have no business taking up plots on his calendar. It's billed as a time for family, friends, and sappiness galore, but for him, sitting around a cramped, overfilled table - knocking elbows with rowdy cousins and squabbling over who gets the last roast potato - to feast on a home-cooked traditional dinner is the farthest thing from reality he could imagine.

The commercialism of the event doesn't faze him anymore, doesn't bury under his skin like seemingly innocent questions he'd answer with politely raised brows and a strained smile - … _what's your plans for the holidays?… Your folks flying out or are you planning on heading out to them? …Oh. I just assumed… -_ and the inevitable looks of pity. Doesn't invoke pangs of longing like painful interactions with virtual strangers - _best wishes for the holidays!…Have a good one!…_ \- and twisting queues of bouncing children and hushing parents sprawling from Santa's grotto.

For god's sake, he worked as a _corporate lawyer_ for some of America's richest and dearest, scamming your everyday Joe and dodging billions in taxes while pumping toxins into our polluted oceans and tearing down chunk after chunk of rainforest - and _a fake one_ , at that.

He's lost any and all claim to the higher road.

But as a kid? That's a whole other matter.

Even in the golden years of his childhood, Mike was never well off, or even what you'd call comfortable. Their finances were unstable. Sometimes things were good, sometimes they were bad. His mom did her fair share of penny pinching, while his dad had a knack for bargain-hunting. They didn't have a lot, but they always had what they needed, and he was fine with that. Mike wasn't reared to be materialistic.

Yet, he wondered why Santa appeared to favour the rich over the poor. Why some kids got what they wanted, while others got nothing at all.

Not even a lump of coal.

At public school, his classes were pretty mixed in terms of social standing. It was easy to differentiate between who came from money and who didn't, himself included. Naughty or nice - both were irrelevant. The system was broken. The list lied.

Christmas was not an equal-opportunity event. It wasn't a free-for-all, miraculous day where all your wildest dreams came true - _yes, you and you, and_ you _._

It was a pressurized, stress-fuelled nightmare, and he knew it. More than that, he _seen_ it.

In the cool kids who bragged about their spoils and showed off some trendy gadget or game consol, chiefly the latest craze that sold out almost before anyone had even heard of it - because obviously _they_ snagged one.

In the quiet kids who brushed off pushy inquiries - "yeah, okay, you had a nice day, but what did you _get_?" - and self-consciously shifted their legs in class to hide the dog-eared tape that covered the hole in their scuffed shoes - because obviously they needed new ones.

No, not all dreams came true. Not even one so simple as a new pair of shoes.

The charm of Santa and his flying reindeers and helpful, hard-working elves had faded by the time he turned eleven (had been rapidly fading ever since he turned eight). But it wasn't until his parents passed that, well…the magic of Christmas was gone for good.

He hasn't had a proper one since.

Grams couldn't afford much in the way of presents. A pair of socks in conjunction with a reduced, chocolate Santa that had its body crushed somewhere in between the bumpy delivery, accidentally falling off a high shelf, or in the hands of an excitable toddler (-what? He liked to speculate) was a well-appreciated treat, and they were a little short on family to entertain, nevermind funds to lavish them with thoughtful gifts. To her credit, she tried, that first year or two, to keep their traditions going and salvage something not entirely depressing about the holidays, but neither of their hearts were in it.

He didn't see the point, and, quite frankly, neither did she.

Mike never did stop appreciating the extra chocolate, though. He always had a sweet tooth.

Then, later, Mike's Christmas's only continued to get even lamer. Yup - apparently that was possible. It was all downhill from there.

Trevor spent the holidays with Jenny's parents in Connecticut, which he never begrudged. They always invited him and he always declined. Before that, the two of them would order a pizza, tip their beers to each other and toast to another fucked up, unfulfilling year (or was that New Years Eve? He never could tell the difference, really), before getting so high that neither solitary stoner could remember if they had company.

No matter what he did, he never could stop being lonely. Alone in thought, alone in body. (He never could tell the difference.)

Christmas Eve he spent with Grammy. Checkers and tea, complete with fine china teacups used once a year and sugar cookies. You couldn't beat it.

On the main day, the nursing home prepared a Christmas lunch with a set menu and limited choices, and threw a party in the afternoon for all of the residents that his Grammy genuinely enjoyed. The last he wanted to do was to spoil for her. That, or put down the ridiculously over-hyped main meal, with supermarket apple tart and warm custard for dessert.

It let her forget for a moment all of the pain she carried with her, while he was the sole reminder.

If nothing else, the revelry and tacky tinsel strung along the doorways was a nice distraction. Mike would rather spend the day alone than mope around with her, dragging Grammy down to his level. Not that he ever told her that. It was easier to tell white lies and spin tales of accepting Jenny and Trevor's invitation and being welcomed with open arms into a family that wasn't his own. Still, Mike suspected she knew, that she always knew, and that saddened him. He could never fool her.

Despite his aversion to all things Christmassy, Mike wasn't a total Grinch.

He made some effort, however minimal. He'd splash out on a gift or two for Jenny and Trevor, save up for something nice to surprise his Grams, and put aside some weed to make the most of the special occasion all by himself. Nothing special.

The gifts were usually wrapped using a thin roll of wrapping paper he'd stumbled upon by accident, either leftover from the prior year or replenished at the cost of a dollar or two in change, and brown packing tape found under the sink. But it's the thought that counts, isn't it? Either that, or the quality of the gift, not the packaging.

He even went to the trouble of decorating his apartment. Or, made an attempt to.

On a day when he was least pissed off at everything and everyone and figured he wouldn't be overcome with the urge to flush a bauble down the toilet or something, Mike would rummage around for the dusty ornaments in his closet, chucked into a tatty cardboard box and shoved all the way to the back.

All he had was a ball of lights - no, really, an actual ball that he was positive would blow a fuse and start a fire faster than a match ever could if he were idiotic enough to plug it in; talk about safety hazards - with several cracked bulbs, an old reindeer plush toy from when he was little, and a bleached, washed out snow globe that looked like it had been left out in the sun too long. Oh, and a chipped, Santa mug. He'd drink from it at some point. Maybe. If he washed out the cobwebs first.

Sometime around midday, on the highly anticipated day itself, Mike would peel himself outta bed, pass on getting dressed - utterly guilt-free at his sweaty PJs, budding stubble, and total lack of pants with no-one around to shame him and not a modest bone left in his body - and amble out into his kitchen, scratching his chin and stifling a yawn/groan.

It wasn't a pretty picture.

He'd blindly claim a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer; sometimes he'd eat it straight from the box if all his dishes were dirty and he couldn't be bothered to wash up. Scratch that - that happened a lot. One time Mike even crushed a bunch of granola bars and saturated them with milk, because he'd run out of Cheerios; the staple of his morning diet.

He'd eat his cereal, give the snow globe a shake and watch the glitter settle. He'd listen to the gurgle, then the clunk, and finally the low, drawn out hiss as the central heating kicked into gear.

Sometimes he'd lounge around watching black and white films. Sometimes he'd go for a walk only to come scurrying back to the blissful ignorance of his apartment at the first sighting of a Santa hat.

His 'delicious' dinner consisted of processed Wonder bread and dry, tasteless turkey from a deli store down the street, peeling back a corner and giving it a wary sniff just in case it's past its sell-by date. Then a cold bear to wash it down. Something stronger from the liquor store to tide him over until morning.

Light a joint and smoke out his apartment - what else was there to do?

Even Trevor had someone to go home to.

"Bottoms up," Mike would mutter to himself as he guzzled back tequila and slammed the drained bottle down on the table. 'Tis the season, after all. Every so often, he'd snort into the silence, just to hear an end it.

And each year he'd get a little more angry and a little more down in the dumps and a little more fed up with the world.

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The first sign of Mike's impending doom is the list that he spies one morning pinned to the refrigerator by a magnetic image of the two of them in Harvey's semi-decent handwriting - one he initially assumes is their weekly grocery list that's revised jointly every couple of days, before something catches his eye.

The forbidden word: _Santa_.

The note doesn't say much.

_\- x2 packets of batteries._

_\- x2 rolls of scotch tape._

_\- Consult Donna on Secret Santa present for Jessica._

_\- Gift for Pierce._

_\- Cinnamon._

_\- Flour._

_\- Ground nutmeg._

_\- Brown sugar._

_\- Whatever shitty candy Mike likes._

All fairly innocent.

But still…Mike swallows hard. He has to wrench his eyes away.

The last part almost causes him to smile, but he's too confused to do anything other than frown at his distorted reflection on the shiny steel.

What's with all the curious ingredients on their grocery list of - not 'maybes,' not 'possibly's' - but _musts_? The absolute essentials, that he must remember to get. Is his Dad planning on baking or something?

Harvey bakes only when he has to, and even then…it's dicey. The ingredients stick out like a sore thumb. But…what else could it be? What other possible use would he have for _ground nutmeg_ and _cinnamon_?

An obvious answer springs to mind and Mike doesn't like it. Something heavy and unpleasant churns in his stomach.

The last thing - the absolute _last thing_ \- he expected was for Harvey, of all people, to put up much fuss about the holidays.

He thought he'd buy some stuff, maybe catch up on a game or two, depending on his work load, and drink some scotch, before ordering in hamburgers and fries like he usually does when he's too tired to deal with cooking _and_ Mike's temperamental taste-buds. (Recently, you never know what he'll reject from one day to the next and Harvey's praying it's a phase, because, man, his patience is being sorely tested. And with Mike - when it comes to fast food in particular - it's always safer to go with the cheapest, greasiest _actual fast food_ instead of his Dad's much preferred, sophisticated Indian restaurant that causes Mike to screw up his face every time he brings it up, because if he's going to be predicable at all, he'll be predictable like that.)

So, yeah - Mike didn't think his Dad planned on going all out for Christmas. Who can blame him? Donna once told him that following a relatively generous distribution of candy canes around the associates' bullpen, Louis had come to personally deliver one to the senior partner, and Harvey had deposited it straight into the trashcan, without even waiting for him leave first.

Or glancing up from his laptop.

On second thought…that could have been more of a consequence of the _who_ rather than the _what_. Most likely a mixture of both.

In truth, he imagined they'd be pretty similar when it comes to a slightly more minimalist approach, which was ill-considered in retrospect, considering his father's flair for extravagance.

Ripping open a loaf of bread and slipping a slice into the toaster, Mike hops up onto the counter - even though, _technically_ , he's prohibited from doing so - and ponders what this means for him and his tolerance levels.

A dehydrated husk of a tree? Tawdry garland strewn across the fireplace?

He instantly dismisses the idea.

While that may be the only kind of decorations he's conversant in, none of that screams Harvey. He wouldn't be so _ordinary_ as to defile his contemporary condo with anything that could be considered an eyesore. Aside from Mike's Lego, that is. It's freaking everywhere.

No, whatever Harvey decides to go with will be tasteful and of the highest quality. Nothing extreme, or so Mike hopes. _Please_ don't let this be one of those completely-over-the-top rich people things that maddens Mike, yet his Dad sees no problem with. He doesn't like to splurge on crap he doesn't need, even now when he knows he can thanks to his accumulating pocket money. Sensible spending had been drummed into him from such a young age that at times Dad's tendency to spoil him makes Mike feel uncomfortable and unworthy. And the last thing he needs righ-

Jumping at the sound of the toast popping, Mike's train of thought is thoroughly derailed, and he takes it out and spreads a thin layer of rapidly melting butter, before tearing off a chunk with his teeth and chewing thoughtfully.

But he can't quite recall what he was so panicked about. Harvey's not big on birthdays, the fourth of July, Halloween, or heck, even Thanksgiving. Why would Christmas be the exception?

 _It'll barely be mentioned in passing_ , Mike chuckles, shaking his head and smiling at his silliness.

Boy, could he be more wrong.

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On the first of December, Mike scowls as he observes his father pouring milk into his cereal.

"Daa _aad_! That's not the bowl I wanted!" he whines, kicking his feet. "I want my special _red_ one."

Trying not to sigh, Harvey tips the bowl and transfers the soggy contents into another one which looks virtually identical, with the exclusion of the red border around the top.

He sets it down in front of him and Mike grins up at him, and it seems all is right in the world. Until-

"Why is there a Lego figure floating in your cereal?"

Mike merely shrugs and spoons another bite.

"You can't bring your Lego to breakfast. From now on, you play with them after you eat, okay?"

That gets his attention.

"But I want to play with them _now_."

His Dad gives him a cautioning look. "Behave," Harvey warns, "or you won't get your surprise."

"Surprise?" The boy's perks up, blue eyes brightening. "What surprise?"

"This one."

From somewhere behind him on the counter, Harvey produces an elegantly-patterned advent calendar and places it in his hands. For a moment, all Mike does is gaze down at it, wide-eyed, and traces the lined doors with his fingertip. But then curiosity gets the better of him and he _has_ to see what's inside. Starting with the box marked the 1st, Mike pries open the flap and has to stop himself from gaping.

He swiftly flips it over to inspect the back, chocolate tumbling out onto the table, and, just as he suspected, there is an tantalizing guide to help decipher between delicacies.

One thing's for sure. This is no cheap, dollar store advent calendar like the kind he got as a kid.

No, this is the luscious confectionery of a gourmet chocolate store. Mike doesn't recognise the company's name. Something French, he concludes. One of those posh places he would never have had the nerve step foot into lest he run himself into the ground with debt for drooling all over the merchandise.

Smooth, pistachio marzipan, dark-chocolate bonbons, creamy truffles with sweet, berry fillings, and rich Belgian chocolate. His mouth is watering simply perusing what's on offer. Thoughts of gobbling up the yummy treats almost causes his blood sugar to soar based on pure desire alone.

He's tempted to poke a hole in the second day to peek inside, but Mike holds strong. He can't believe that this is his - _all his_ \- for the next twenty-four days. It's - it's too much.

"Where did you -? Why did y-?" With no small effort, Mike snaps his jaw shut from where it had fallen on the floor. There's nothing he can do about his bugged eyes though. "Dad, what the hell? Jesus, did you have this imported from Europe or something?"

"A simple thank-you would suffice."

"No - seriously, Dad. What the hell?"

Harvey merely smiles that mysterious smile and jerks a shoulder in a lazy shrug, lips pursed. "What can I say? I like the finer things in life."

"Fin _est_ , maybe," Mike stresses, still stunned. "What are these? Sixty… eighty dollars a pop? Man, they must have cost a fortune. Not to mention, they've gotta sell out - what? _Months_ in advance?"

"I have a standing order," Harvey calmly explains, like it's no biggie, all in a day's work. Whatever.

" _Seriously_?"

"The fact that Pearson Hardman represents them helps," he confesses, lips twitching with amusement. "But they appreciate my loyalty. Even get an all-year round discount."

"That's insane. God, could you _be_ any more pretentious."

"I'm assuming that's rhetorical?"

"Not really."

Harvey laughs. "Savour them, kiddo. Trust me, this isn't gonna turn into a regular thing. Don't get used to it."

And that's the last of it. Or, so Mike thinks.

About a week later, Harvey comes home with candy cane-flavoured ice-cream - yes, that's a real thing - after having attended the annual Christmas cocktail party at the firm, mingling with clients and co-workers alike while grabbing every flute of champagne he could get his hands on.

Mike, on the other hand, spent the evening at Pierce's, because neither father or son are ready for an unknown sitter that his scary attorney Dad hasn't grilled to the point of insanity as if it's the biggest deposition of his career.

They share a cosy, patchwork quilt on the couch, each nursing a bowl of freshly scooped ice-cream despite it being a direct violation of Dad's strict no-hyperactive-hopped-up-on-sugar-puppies-after-eight rule, while they swap stories of their night.

"The party was a complete bust," Harvey groans, dragging his hands down his face. "Jessica dragged me into the most tedious conversations going in the name of improving my less-than-stellar good guy reputation with the other partners. According to her, it's a work in process. Then Donna started getting bitchy and handsy, like she always does when she's on the wrong side of tipsy, and I had to save Louis from making a complete fool out of himself with beautiful women who are so far out his league, they barely count as the same species." He exhales heavily. "The usual."

"Did they have those fancy shrimp things?"

"They sure did. About a thousand of them. Believe me, it was no consolation."

Shaking more sprinkles onto his sinfully sweet ice-cream, he carves out another spoonful and sticks it in his mouth, garbling, "Ye'th?"

"It was one thing after another. Each year, I tell Jessica to call off the whole shindig before it's too late to revoke the invitations and remind her how excruciating it was the year before, and every year she insists they're good for the firm and goes ahead and hosts the damn thing anyway. Can't say I see the benefit. Recipe for disaster, more like. How about you?"

Mike shrugs. "It was alright. We mostly played on his X-box." He frowns suddenly. "But get this: we were just chilling in his room chatting about winter break, when out of nowhere, Pierce starts going on about Christmas lists and what's Santa's bringing him, and I'm sitting there like, _huh_? I mean, I didn't say anything, but it was super awkward, y'know? I couldn't contradict him, because that would make me the worst person in the entire world - never mind a _horrible_ friend - but I didn't want to encourage him, either. It kinda killed the mood. After that, we just watched a movie." He licks his spoon. "Weird, right?"

Harvey doesn't say anything. An unreadable expression passes over his face.

Mike shifts to face him properly, frown deepening. "You _do_ think that's weird - don't you?"

After a moment, with only a vaguely guilty look…he shrugs.

"Dad!"

"What? I think it's nice. Can't fault him for it, puppy." He shrugs again. "That wouldn't be fair."

"I'm _not_ ," Mike professes, sitting up and getting defensive. "But at the same time, you have to admit: it _is_ weird. He's fourteen, remember? And so am I, for that matter."

Grimacing and obviously not wanting to offend him any more than he already has, Harvey gently reminds him, "Only half of the time, kiddo."

Unable to deal with this crap right now, Mike makes an effort to loosen his jaw and gruffly suggests, "Look - can we just drop this? It's stupid."

His Dad doesn't seem to mind. He agrees easily, "If that's what you want."

The conversation moves on to other things, and once again, Mike's ready to put the subject to bed, but it's only a matter of time before the forbidden word devotedly comes up again.

They're arguing. Well, he is.

His father kindly - and repeatedly - asked him to tidy up his toys before dinner, but Mike was busy - and what was the point of putting them away if he was just going to dump them out again, anyway? And, 'sides, he was in the _middle_ of something. His Dad shouldn't interfere with his delicate creative process.

So, when Harvey comes back to find the living room in an even worse state than it was when he left it two minutes ago and starts to tell Mike off, it's not long before Lego pieces are sent soaring past his head.

"Blocks are for building," he scolds, not for the first time, "not for throwing. Stop it."

Bunching his hands into fists and flinging out his left leg - sending his toys spinning across the floor and under the couch - Mike sulks, _"Hate_ you."

Rolling his eyes because Mike has been using that word so often lately that it's starting to lose any and all impact or meaning, Harvey noticeably takes a deep breath to warm up for the oncoming lecture.

The youngster 'hates' carrots, and peas, and navy sweaters, and zebra crossings, and elevators (but only when they're travelling upwards. Going down's okay). It's just a phase.

Doesn't mean he gets away with it.

Upholding his smooth expression, Harvey hunkers down and chastises gently, " _Mike_ …you shouldn't say things like that. That hurts my feelings."

Stubbornly crossing his arms, he huffs back, "Don't care."

Thus, seemingly out of the blue…his Dad tosses out a casual, "Well, I hope for your sake Santa didn't hear that."

And Mike has to stop himself from staggering back and blurting out something about UFO's visiting in the dead of night and gullible pod-people that don't know the difference between real and fantasy when it comes to researching earth's customs for their premeditated takeover.

Rookie mistake, dude. _Rookie mistake_. Way to blow your cover.

Because Harvey Specter would never be so silly as to imply he puts any stock into something as ludicrous and far-fetched as some fat, jolly bearded dude that travels around the entire world in one night delivering pressies for approx. ages two and up out of the sheer goodness of his heart. No way in hell.

It's not that he has anything against the old man, but a belief in Santa Claus, however weak, is not something he wants his Dad to be actively endorsing.

Mike has a strong suspicion that that's a spell he will all-too-quickly fall under and pretty soon that 'fairly weak' will turn into 'an unequivocal _abso-FRICKIN'-lutely.'_

'Cause if Harvey says he believes it, Mike will believe it - beyond a shadow of a doubt. After all, his Daddy would _never_ lie to him (discounting all the times Harvey has sworn to him that he did, in fact, call up every single pizzeria in New York City, and, oh, dear, would you look at that, they are _all_ out of that stuffed crust pizza he likes so much, so he guesses Mike will just have to eat that strange, 'healthy' lasagne he wasted an hour of his life making. Oh - and if 'never' means every damn time Pierce comes over to play cops and lawyers and he says it's such a shame Mike's allergic to gun powder. And criminals. And danger. And guns in general. But - _shhh_ ).

Not about something so important.

It was one thing for Harvey to accept Pierce's unwavering faith. It's a whole other matter for him to poison Mike's mind with such childish fantasies.

"Santa's not real, Daddy," he informs him, rolling his eyes and putting his best 'Silly Daddy' voice to use. "That's stupid."

" _Jellybean_ believes in Santa. Do you think he's stupid?"

"Well -" Mike blows out a dramatic breath that's made up of twenty-percent exasperation and about eighty-percent world-weariness. He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Probably not," he admits, "because Jellybean is the smartest, like me, but he'll believe _anything_. Sorry - but he's wrong and you're wrong and I think I'd know if Santa Claus was real, because I know _everything_."

"Not everything," Harvey corrects, smothering a laugh and recalling one of the many, many times Mike has debunked that theory. "You didn't know which button to push to turn on the dishwasher last week."

Mike bristles. "That was different," he argues back stiffly. "That's _doing_ stuff, not knowing stuff."

He shrugs, all casual-like. "Doesn't seem all that different."

"Well, it is," his son confidently assures. "So stop bringing Santa up. I know you're lying." But in the back of his mind that voice is whispering, _Daddy would never lie to me._

Harvey sniggers at his attitude, but agrees. For now, at least.

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"Wanna help Daddy decorate the tree?"

After several touch and go moments, he's successfully wrestled their newly picked tree into the condo. The place reeks of fresh cypress and tangy pine, but he likes it. It's invigorating. Makes up for the hellish scuffle up the stairs…Kind of.

Harvey shakes his head and pin needles fall from his hair.

Preferring to play with his action figures while chewing on his thumb, Mike's nose wrinkles.

"I watch."

"Suit yourself. You sit there and relax, while I do all the hard work," Harvey snipes, smiling to let him know he's only teasing. Lugging over the box of decorations, he cranks up the Christmas tunes to get him in the right festive frame of mind - well, _someone_ has to be - and starts off by stringing strands of lights in graceful arcs around the tree. Next, he drapes a cord of silver beads around the branches and infuriates himself fiddling with the threads of sleek baubles in the struggle to hang them up. Ribbon garlands are added and the tree is dappled with ornaments from the trunk to peak, spaced out and artistically arranged.

An hour and a flick of a switch later, and it's a job well done, if he does say so himself.

Their condo looks like something from a Hallmark card.

The soft, dancing colours lend it an intimate and homey ambience, and there's an undeniable surge of warmth that they never realised the space lacked. True to his word, Mike has been overseeing the proceedings and is currently staring in awe. He stands, lured in by the iridescent colours reflected on their pale walls, breathtaking and serene.

"Care to do the honours?" Harvey holds out the porcelain angel flaunting a striking gold dress and feathery wings.

Speechless, the youngster can only shake his head.

"Go on," he encourages, nudging him forward playfully. "You know you want to."

Standing on his tippy toes in order to reach, Mike wobbles slightly and bites down on his lip. A pleased grin breaks out across his face as he places the angel at the top, glancing back for Harvey's approval.

"Perfect," he pronounces, beaming.

And he means it.

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* * *

For Harvey, going home for Christmas was a complicated, yet unavoidable affair. No pun intended. A necessary evil, in his mind, so long as he didn't draw any attention to himself and his mother, and the tension so thick you could cut into it that crackled between them.

His terse replies and confrontational manner only tripled their record of awkward silences, but being there, with his brother and his Dad, made it worth it, even when it didn't feel like it, and he wouldn't trade that for the world. Looking back, Harvey's incredibly glad he forced himself to participate. If not, he doesn't think he'd ever forgive himself for missing out on creating those - albeit sundry and not necessarily positive - memories while they still could.

Because when his Dad died, so did their sense of duty.

That was that. Goodbye family.

He no longer had anyone to celebrate with and Harvey surprised himself by feeling disappointed instead of relieved.

All he had to look forward to was a printed greetings card signed impersonally by his mother and an E-card courtesy of Marcus in his Inbox.

One estranged mother, deceased father, and elusive brother later, and Harvey had nothing better to do on Christmas day than sit around doing more of the same (hint: work, work, and more work), leafing through the business section of the _New York Times_ and staring down a scotch on the rocks. More often than not, he found himself wishing that his cell would chime, alerting him of some lawyer-type-deal-gone-awry emergency.

But that call never came.

It's Christmas day; people are busy. They have work to do, and it ain't _work_ work. They're carving turkey for famished, lip-smacking relatives and trying not to aggravate age-old family feuds, and gorging on junk food in their underwear, watching reruns of _The Price is Right_ with their cat or something _._ Whatever it is normal people do. He's not an expert in conventional Christmas's.

But this is his first Christmas with a kid.

And not just any kid, either. _His_ kid.

 _Mike_.

That's huge.

There is something preposterously appealing to Harvey about celebrating the holidays surrounded by his loved ones (even if it is only going to be the three of them), and creating some of his own distinctive traditions with his puppy.

It mightn't have been something to get excited about in the past, but he can _make_ it exciting now.

So he didn't get any lovingly hand-baked goods as a child?

No worries. He'll remedy that this time round.

He couldn't open his presents 'til after dinner?

They'll dive into theirs first thing in the morning. _Before_ the thrill of being together grows stale and everyone's sitting around checking their watches for whatever time they deem it socially acceptable to leave.

When Donna offers him an out, Harvey's proud of how little the prospect appeals to him.

"Want me to bake some shit and freeze it ahead of time in case you forget?" she poses one Thursday over lunch, stabbing her Caesar salad with an upturned lip and air of bitterness.

She eyes his bagel with interest.

"Thanks for the offer," he responds amiably, "But I'd rather do it the old-fashioned way." At her, quite frankly insulting, expression of disbelief, he adds, "I have to do this, Donna. No cheating. I want to do it the right way."

She blinks, nods her head, and tries to taper down her sprouting smile.

"Alrighty, then."

Yet as excited as he is at the possibilities, Mike's definitely not feeling it this year - likely hasn't done for quite a while. It's not something they've discussed. But, at this point, it's becoming clearer and clearer that it's something they need to delve into soon.

Harvey would have to be an idiot not to take notice of Mike's reluctance to partake in any form of festivity. While he doesn't grouch about Christmas and how much he hates it every second of every day like some haters (not that he takes offence when they do. Harvey isn't in a position to judge. He understands exactly where they're coming from; everyone has their reasons, he gets that), Mike's far from an advocate of it, either, and he's not afraid to show it.

He snorts at the Elf-themed costume Louis wrangles his poor, unsuspecting cat into and expresses little sympathy for the many, _many_ scratches he gained in the process - though, to be fair, how could you not?

He flips through the channels, skipping every single commercial alluding to Christmas, and avoids all of his favourite music stations with their hourly countdowns to the ultimate Christmas number one.

If a Christmas movie comes on, Mike wastes no time changing it over.

He scoffs at Miss Connie's proposal that their small group of 'students' perform a Nativity scene, rolls his eyes when the festive street lights go up, and complains that everyone at school won't shut up about who lucked out in Secret Santa, trying to decipher who drew whose name, with some even setting up betting pools for who'll give and who'll receive the worst gift in their grade.

One day while they're on their way back to the firm, this guy is handing out glossy flyers on the street and passes Harvey an advertisement for _Toys 'R Us_ as he brushes past, but before he can even glance at it, Mike snatches the flyer out of his hand, crumples it up, and disposes of it in the nearest trashcan, like he can't bear the sight of it.

It strikes Harvey as a tad extreme. Hence, the dire need for that conversation.

He's not entirely sure how to bring it up, though. Jump right in or ease him into it?

Turns out, he needn't worry, because, when the time comes, it happens entirely naturally.

"So," he broaches offhandedly one afternoon while putting away dishes. "When do wanna start decorating the place?"

"Oh." Mike's eyebrows scrunch. "We don't need to do that."

"You sure about that?" Harvey probes, that niggling concern coming rushing back as he turns around to frown at him. "Don't you have any traditions you'd like to continue? Something you've always wanted to do, but never had the chance? We can try anything you want. All you have to do is pitch it to me."

"Honestly, Dad. I'm not that interested. You can do whatever you want. Doesn't matter to me."

But the pain in his blue eyes and stiffness of his posture accuses the matter of _mattering_ very much.

Out of curiosity, he questions, "When's the last time you hung up a stocking?"

"Do socks count? 'Cause if not, then…"

"Never?"

Mike shrugs in discomfort. "Never."

"I'll get you one this year," Harvey promises. Immediately, he starts mentally compiling a list of possible stocking fillers.

The teen doesn't reply and mostly acts indifferent, but there's a restrained twitching of his lips that causes the father's heart to squeeze tightly.

He has to take this slowly. Introduce one thing at a time. Mike is highly emotional at the best of times and at present, he becomes overwhelmed at a speed you wouldn't believe; dazzled by the bright lights and tentative in the face of the sudden influx of tourists and whirlwind of harried shoppers, as if he hasn't lived in New York his whole life.

He has to make this Christmas a good one. For both of their sake's.

Not perfect, not mind-blowing.

Harvey only has to make it enjoyable enough that Mike's stomach doesn't burn with dread at the thought of rehashing it all next year…Piece of cake, right?

The next day he hangs up, not one, but _two_ velvety, red stockings, with furry, white trims, and _MIKE_ and _JELLYBEAN_ sown in fancy gold lettering.

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* * *

The holiday blues are swiftly taking root.

Store windows filled to the brim, with plenty of stock to shift. Each establishment announcing the most outrageous price cuts and advertising the _best_ deals.

Among buzzing neon signs and flashing reindeers, between blow up stars and inflatable snowmen and floods of consumers hitting the shops, there's a brutal clarity settling over the city that Mike could do without.

It's easier, he thinks, when his younger mindset takes over.

The blinking, festive lights are addictive. They draw you in against your will; convince you anything is possible. At this time of year, New York nightlife is so achingly beautiful. So _magical_. It's a sensory overload that often leaves Mike swinging somewhere between wired and dazed, clamping onto his Daddy's arm in the middle of the sidewalk, without a clue what to make of it all.

Either way, toddler or teenager, he's looking at a splitting headache and a quiet night-in watching Avengers under a knitted throw with Jellybean and Harvey. (He knew Donna's ban wouldn't stick.)

It sucks. All of it.

Everywhere he turns, there are business men toting heavy carrier bags on their way home from work and mothers concealing their holiday loot amid teething toys and sippy cups in buggies.

Even at day care, there are sparkly fairy lights and a small, synthetic tree glittering with the power of the complete spectrum of a majestic rainbow over in the corner.

There's no escape from it.

Miss Connie, of course, prides herself in being a dedicated contributor to the rather forceful invasion of red and gold and mistletoe that saturates New York each glacial December, joining the ranks of devout Christians and dear St. Nick, and a sizeable selection of the city's population, who are obnoxiously jolly in their efforts to spread good will and endless holiday cheer, and shove happiness and humility down the remaining populace's throats. During arts and crafts, she coaches them on how to make snowflake paper chains and educates the class on the importance of creating cute, glitzy ornaments to take pride of place year after year on their lavish trees in their enormously idyllic homes.

She takes it all very seriously.

 _"Oh, heaven's!"_ she had cried, hand pressed against her chest and looking absurdly teary. Mike had looked down at the gluey mess in his hand and wondered what all the commotion was about. All he did was paint a spongy sphere blue and plunge it into a bowl of glitter. " _Mikey, it's beautiful! Just you wait until you take that home to show your Daddy. He is going to LOVE it!"_

And, yeah, sure, when he found the stupid thing rolling around in the bottom of Mike's backpack a week later, dented and ink-splattered (thanks to his wealth of busted pens), along with a nasty, shimmering surprise tucked into the folds of the fabric from his excessive use of those pretty, shiny flecks that every parent everywhere knows are the literal embodiment of evil, Harvey was beyond thrilled.

By then, the bauble was not half as 'impressive' as it once was, minus the benefits of artificial lighting, delusional, bubbly middle-aged ladies, and an obscene amount of glitter - battered and beaten and ugly as hell - but nevertheless, his Dad positioned it right near the top of their picture perfect tree where you'd have to be blind to miss it, grinning from ear to ear.

Mike just rolled his eyes and continued playing.

Now, red hot and bitter cold, he scrapes together a lump of snow, clawing at the ground with broken fingernails, and shapes a hard, crunchy snowball.

It's mostly slush and ice at this point, but he makes the most of what he's got.

Mike shields his eyes from the glare of sunlight glinting off yesterday's thawing snow and pulls his arm back. With a guttural shout, he lobs the snowball at the window of their condo.

It smashes in an explosion of white flakes, and his chest is heaving, his hands are shaking. The glass can take it.

Grey skies, tattered, frosted leaves skittering at his feet, a shuddering breath lost in the wind.

Temperatures have been falling fast.

Mike's cheeks are wet, and it could be tears, or dripping icicles overhead, or the softly falling snow landing in his hair. He doesn't care.

Fingers throbbing with the cold, seeping into his bones, and the chill cutting into his ears, Mike dusts snow off his shoulders with hard, angry slaps. At some point, he doesn't know when, it starts snowing heavier and heavier, until his hair is wringing wet and the jacket he hastily shrugged on is caked in snow.

Unbeknownst to him, recently returned from the store, Harvey watches from the other side of the window with a tight throat and gritted jaw.

Finally, he can't take it any more. Harvey yanks open the door to the balcony and steps out, aware his shoes are a long way from the most suitable footwear for this weather. His little boy is glaring down at a withered potted plant, scarcely more than dense soil and a single stick; it could never have survived this climate. It didn't stand a chance.

He doesn't look up.

"Mike," he says quietly. "Come inside."

The little sniffle he produces almost breaks his heart.

Voice thickening, he speaks through vocal cords that feel as if they're twisted into a rock-solid knot. "Come on, puppy. It's okay. Time to come in." Harvey loops an arm around him quaking shoulders and cuddles him close. "A nice bowl of soup will warm you up."

Mike lets his Dad lead him to the couch and wrap him up in appropriate winter gear of the indoor variety. From the refrigerator, Harvey fishes out a container of his signature soup to heat and empties it into microwaveable-friendly bowl.

Then he leaves with Mike's sodden clothes.

And Mike's back to staring out at the murky skyline, holding back a dam of tears.

Behind him, the microwave dings.

A memory resurfaces - from over a decade earlier - of stirring canned soup and letting it go cold, even as his stomach grumbled and his Grammy hovered, radiating anxiety. Face stony, tear ducts dried out. He's been here before. It was the first Christmas since they-

Much as he strives to ignore it, there's a cramping in his chest, a lump swells in his throat, crushing his windpipe, and neither will be willed away.

No tree, no gifts, no stockings, or joyful thoughts. Burrowed under a woollen blanket his Grammy knitted herself, barely summoning the will to reach for the remote, every lift of his chest feeling like it weighed a ton. He'd watch anything so long as he didn't have to move.

Mike clears his throat, suddenly aware of his Dad's dark, worry-filled eyes locked on him, and moves as if in a daze. Open door, remove dish, close door, sit down. Eat?

He no longer feels like it.

Watching the steam twirl as it rises, Mike soaks a piece of crusty bread in the hot soup until it collapses under the weight of all it has absorbed and plops onto the counter with a wet splat. And, that. That sound. That's what makes him crack.

He gets up, robotically shakes the crumbs from his hands, and retreats to the bathroom for a long, searing shower with a bland look tossed behind him that falls a little short of, _I'm fine_. By the time he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and padding up the hall, the mess has long since been cleared away.

Mike sighs, silence ringing in his ears.

 _Ah, yes_.

Christmas cheer strikes again.

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"I never shop this time of year. Too many assholes, too little patience," Harvey had declared completely un-ironically sometime in November, not knowing that in little over a month he'd have to recant the words. "Never have, never will. There's no call for it."

"Then…how do you organise presents?" Mike wondered, perplexed. "Order online?"

"No," he'd scoffed, like it was embarrassingly obvious. " _Donna_. She takes care of all that shit."

And that was true, back before he made that damn sacred dad promise to himself.

_No cheating._

He can't rely on Donna to handle his son's presents - not when he'd turned down her offer of baked goodies. He has to know he's capable of managing this himself.

Which is why he finds himself hunching his shoulders with his phone wedged under his ear, as he juggles four overstuffed ego-bags, seeking Donna's advice on whether or not the band tees he's been mulling over are something Mike would approve of. He's been snapping pictures all day to forward onto the redheaded Goddess for her opinion before he considers purchasing anything, as is their customary retail strategy.

Like his own personal wall of shame, she archives the most horrendous pickings to torment him with later - which is stupid because _everyone_ has brief lapses in judgement when it comes to their fashion taste every now and then - and likes to whip the images out whenever she thinks he's getting too cocky or is bragging too much about his impeccable taste. She relishes any chance to take him down a notch or two.

"It's purple. But not, like, a girly purple. Not that there's anything wrong w- …Well, how about the green one? He likes green, right? Yeah, it's a little bright in the picture, but that's the goddamn lighting in here…Says it's machine-washable, already checked the label….Hey, I can tell the difference between all the little symbols, okay? It's not that hard….Fine, I'll take another look at the other one, but I'm telling you now, Mike is not going to want to wear a baby panda t-shirt no matter how cute you think it is."

He reflects on the panda artwork Mike had in his old apartment and second guesses himself for a brief second, before he remembers the cutesy, cartoonish character adorning the blue tee and shudders. That bear was creepy as hell.

Lowering his cell to note the time, the low battery sign flashing catches his attention and Harvey butts into Donna's impassioned rant to remark, "Hang on - I've gotta go. Phone's about to die...No, I swear, it really is this time. I learned my lesson last time. If you still want to plead your case later, we can resume this conversation then. I'll see you back at the office tomorrow…- Got it. Bye."

Leave it to Donna to end a phone call brightly rhyming off a random date that somehow manages to sound like a not-so-thinly veiled threat.

This shopping thing's certainly no picnic.

Before he'd started, Harvey had waited in line for a cup of overpriced coffee to prepare himself for the horrors that were sure to come - but, honestly? It doesn't seem to have done him much good.

He's tired and grumpy, and not one bit happy.

Navigating Manhattan mall was a much greater ordeal than he ever could have thought. The sheer volume of people has been staggering and there's no reprieve from the festive music blaring out of every speaker within a ten mile radius on loop, and the longer he's there, the more it pisses him off.

Hit by a blast of warm air as he'd strolled inside, getting a whiff of vanilla and spiced plum - _ooh_ , how he had been fooled. For a second, it had seemed like, hey, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Harvey was set straight soon enough.

He'd braved the jostling crowds and Christmas soundtrack, and tried not to look too irritated when the jaded cashier fumbled as they scanned his items, politely thanking them afterwards because he would never, in a million years, trade places with any of them.

Not with the mechanical dancing polar bears, radiant lights showering down everywhere you look, and glowing wire reindeers hanging from the ceiling.

And that's just the décor.

Harvey takes his up to the check out and glares when another inattentive customer, who needs to watch where they're goddamn going, bumps into him with their trolley for the fourth time today. Massaging his temples as he stands in line, shifting his weight and cursing himself for not charging his cell beforehand, Harvey is nearly comatose by the time it's his turn.

The store clerk rings up his purchases, ends up having to enter the code manually, punching in random numbers, before bagging his shit and informing of the amount due. He hands her his card and she swipes it, taking her damn time with it, too.

Christ. He just wants to _leave_. In this instant, it feels as if he'll never make it outta here. It takes all of his self-control not to start impatiently tapping his foot.

At this rate, he'll need another double-espresso just to revive himself.

At long last, he's free to go, and Harvey doesn't hesitate to flee. There are a few more bits and pieces he needs to pick up, but to hell with it, they can wait for another day. He cuts across an electrical company's stall where they're out trying to recruit new customers, circumventing the free samples of lotions, vibrant bath bombs and scented candles to dodge the overly keen sales assistant with the free-flowing tongue, and further down, the shiny platters of temptation piled high with mince pies and fresh brownies.

Once outside, he breathes a sigh of relief.

 _Finally_.

The sky is purple and stunningly smoky in this frosty winter night. It's refreshingly freezing out after being coped up in department stores for hours, and while goose-bumps may prickle on his forearms, Harvey can only appreciate the fleeting sense of liberation.

On his way home, he picks up take-out and stops at a drug store to stock up on batteries, buying an extra packet just to be on the safe side. He comes in, kicks off his shoes, walks over and envelops Mike in a fatigued bear hug, pecks his forehead, before collapsing onto the couch with the greasy bag of take-out.

He's been on his feet all day and he's definitely feeling it now.

"Long day?" Mike asks, smirking.

Eyelids slipping shut, Harvey murmurs something unintelligible.

Mike leans over him and snatches up the paper bag, unwrapping his hamburger and pinching a salty fry. He munches on it slowly as he struggles to tear a corner off his ketchup sachet.

"Well, since you're clearly not in a chatty mood, I'll do the talking. _So_ …I've been thinking…You know what we should do this year? Buy a bird feeder. I know - not your style. But think about all those poor birds out there scavenging for worms. Don't you think they should deserve a nice dinner on Christmas day, too-?"

"Hmhm," the older man hums, only half listening.

Mike halts temporarily to scratch uselessly at the impenetrable squashy packet.

He's now resorting to biting to try and rip it open.

Exhausted as he is, Harvey chuckles weakly at the pathetic little growling noises his son's emitting and without opening his eyes, holds out an open palm for him to drop the sachet onto. It's wet and slimy, but he splits it apart with ease.

Mike pouts, but thanks him.

Lifting off his bap and squeezing ketchup onto his burger before taking an ambitiously large bite, Mike continues blathering on and on and regaling - hopefully - fabricated stories of this dead bird they hit upon behind a dumpster at school that everyone took turns poking with a stick, until Harvey eventually dozes off.

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"I just wanna see what the next one looks like!"

"Uh-uh. Sure." Harvey's voice is shrouded in about ten distinct layers of sarcasm. "And after you're done discovering that it is, indeed, the same as all the others you've eaten, I bet you'll wanna find out what it tastes like, too, am I right?"

"I won't. I swear I won't!"

"I know you think that now, puppy," he counters semi-sympathetically, "But the temptation might be more than you can handle and you'll be more upset tomorrow if you don't save any for then. Besides, the _point_ of an advent calendar is that you only open _one_ per day. That's how you keep track of when Santa's coming."

"I already know when he's coming. I don't _want_ him to come," is Mike's smart-ass answer, neither rejecting nor accepting the bearded man's existence. It's what Harvey has come to expect.

But, slowly, gradually, Mike's attitude changes.

He starts watching _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ religiously before bedtime and catching Harvey off guard by quizzing him on the ins and outs of Santa Claus's iffy occupation at the most inopportune times. On one particularly memorable afternoon, Harvey is walking down to Mike's room with a basket of clean laundry on his hip when he pauses at the door as the sound of Mike's quiet, melodic vocals reaches his ears. _"I wanna hippopotamus for Christmas,"_ he sings adorably, stumbling a little over the tricky word. _"Only a hippopotamus will do. No crocodiles or rhinoceroses. I only like hippopotamuses. And hippopotamuses like me to."_

Harvey hangs back to listen, the goofiest of smiles plastered across his face.

He's hard at work setting up his race track, so sometimes he pauses for a big breath or to concentrate extra hard on which car should go where in the line up, only to restart a beat or two later. Mike only knows about half of the words, often repeating the same line about six times over, and there's a verse or two of improvisation that somehow trails off into Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Only then does Harvey announce his presence. He deliberately bangs the rim of the basket against the door as he enters.

Mike starts, and glances up at him in surprise. And then - to his shock - his little budding singer relaxes his shoulders and launches into a remediation of Rockin' around the Christmas Tree, returning to his game and soon forgetting he's even there.

It's quite the turn around, if he does say so himself.

Eventually, Mike writes a Santa list "for Jellybean" since "his paws are too fat to hold a pencil," and informs Harvey - utterly straight-faced, bless him - that if they 'plant' red hots in the snow during the Christmas season, come morning they'll have grown into full-sized candy canes. Swears by it, apologises to Jellybean for ever doubting him. Pierce did the same thing last week and he has all the candy canes in the world to prove it.

Harvey promises to test it out sometime soon.

"Daddy," Mike begins sweetly, while he's in the middle of tucking him in. "What do you think would happen if we planted _jellybeans_? Would we get _more_ Jellybeans? Because I already have one Jellybean and I don't think I want another one."

Thank heavens Harvey has enough experience with this kind of talk to follow that baffling speech.

"I don't know, puppy." Smiling softly, he smoothes down his hair, lets his hand rest there. "Guess we'll have to wait and find out. But I can promise you this: candy only ever grows into more candy. Nothing and no-one will ever be able to replace your Jellybean."

Mike nods, massively relieved, and hugs his stuffed wolf closer.

Looks like he's buying another half a dozen bags of candy canes and a heck of a lot of jellybeans to boot. God knows how many times Mike'll want to put this neat little trick to the test once he's obtained his own evidence that it works.

And, by God, he can't let him down. Not now. Not ever. Not when it comes to this.

He pulls out his phone and dials Donna's number as soon as he's left the room. "Okay - quick question. Say I were to plant them in a jar on my balcony, which candy do you think jellybeans would be more to likely to turn into: tootsie rolls or twizzlers?"

"Hold up - _what_? Context, Harvey. Context."

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As the day draws nearer and Mike's excitement heightens, Harvey resorts to storing his presents in one of his vacant suitcases for fear that he'd go hunting them out.

"If I put these under the tree early, do you promise not to 'accidentally' poke any holes in them?" he asks.

"Those ones?" Mike peers over, squinting. "Nah. It's just a bunch of clothes. I can tell."

Harvey can't even find it within himself to be offended. Kid's got a point.

"So long as we're clear." He tucks the squashy bundles under the tree and while he's doing so, it hits him.

Only two days to go.

If he wants to go down the home-bakery road, he'd need to start baking soon. So…why not today?

Mike has told him, repeatedly, that he's fine with the store-bought stuff, but Harvey is adamant that he has to do this hard way. Besides…how hard can the hard way be?

_Famous last words._

"Hands," Harvey reminds before they begin, and Mike scurries off to the sink to find the handwash, while the lawyer skims through the recipe one more time, even though he's fairly certain he has the shit in the bag. The youngster lathers up his hands with about three pumps too much soap, but Harvey lets him off the hook in the name of it being the season of good will and all that.

"And your sleeves."

Mike rolls up his long-sleeved t-shirt with a very serious look on his face. It's adorable.

They settle on making both sugar and gingerbread cookies, and Harvey's pragmatic enough to keep his expectations low. Yet, one of the biggest challenges, he's surprised to learn, is simply taking a back seat and _letting it happen_.

Harvey's always been of the opinion that he's quite a laid back parent when it comes to Mike making messes, but this is difficult even for him.

Eggs are splattered across the floor, flour spews everywhere.

It feels as if Harvey bought the icing sugar for the sole purpose of creating their own little winter paradise inside their kitchen, rather than to dust over frickin' cookies.

Mike's a floury catastrophe.

A large part of Harvey suspects he's enjoying the excuse to get filthy more so than the father-and-son bonding bake-a-thon.

"…Yes, the recipe does say you have to mix until it's fluffy, but that's not the kind of fluffy it meant…We'll use a sheet of baking paper later so the cookies don't get stuck to the pan." Harvey explains as they go along, mixing together the dry ingredients, while tossing out the odd favour or two to keep him on task. "Pass me the ginger - no, not that one…yes, that's it, thank you. You're very good at this."

Once everything has been mixed together, he binds the dough in a plastic wrap, tucking in all the corners and checking for air holes, and balances it on top of two jars of jam and tomato sauce to chill in the refrigerator.

While they wait for the dough to firm up, the worn-out pair curl up on the couch to watch a movie and Harvey manages to squeeze in Mike's nap, before he's past the point of tiredness.

Then it's back to rolling out the sticky dough and cutting out shapes. Mike's approach is more punch-based than smooth rolling (he's inclined to favour his hands over the rolling pin; it's more amusing that way), and he grinds the cookie cutters into the counter pretty hard, but it's all in good fun. They get there in the end.

The tray is slid into the oven and - while somewhat misshapen - overall, the cookies are coming along nicely. He sets a timer and takes them out fifteen minutes later. Though he expects the first batch to be burnt to the point they're declared inedible, they turn out…pretty alright. Not great, but impressive for a first attempt. A shade darker than the recommended 'golden brown,' but, whatever.

A positively heavenly aroma of vanilla and cinnamon wafts from the kitchen and Harvey has to thwart several assassination attempts on the gingerbread men's lives while they cool on a rack.

A few limbs are lost to the boy's nibbling, but sacrifices must be made. Even Harvey's guilty of stealing a bite or two. So long as they don't devour all of them, he figures they're on the right track.

According to Mike's ruling, no two cookies are permitted to look the same. This results in a great deal more chaos when it comes to the decorating process than he predicted, but maybe that would have happened regardless.

Mike's aim's not very accurate while shooting out white frosting and he really splashes out on the jellies and gum drops. Not to mention how generous he is with the red and green sprinkles. They were never going to look like the picture in the cookbook.

An entire packet of Reese's pieces is unloaded onto one cookie, for Pete's sake. Mike calls dibs on that one, and, hey - he's not objecting.

There are stars and trees, jingle bells and angels. Plus, a few crafty robots snuck their way into the gang after Mike got his hands on the robot-shaped cookie cutter.

The clean up is a pain in the ass (Harvey finds a jug of gloopy paste where Mike obviously just blended together a blast of frosting, crushed M&M's, and marshmallows while his attention was elsewhere. He isn't even surprised), but it pays off in the end. The cookies are delightful, filled with ooey-gooey deliciousness and crumbling beautifully in your mouth - just the way he likes them.

Both males have more than enough reason to feel proud. Despite some small hiccups, they actually pulled it off. Enough that Harvey doesn't feel at all guilty about gifting them to everyone he knows because he couldn't be bothered to go out and buy them anything.

They bake a batch for Louis, another for Jessica, a third for Rachel; saving the last batch for themselves.

The cookies are packed into starry boxes with sparkly bows pressed on top and deemed instant masterpieces.

And they truly are, by Harvey's estimation, the ugliest, yummiest, most precious cookies in the whole wide world.

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Christmas Eve's quiet, despite the buzz in the air.

They drop by his Grammy's nursing home, take her out for lunch at a snazzy restaurant where she has a good laugh at Harvey's failed attempts to keep Mike in line, and return in time for Louis to drop off a gift for the disruptive youngster. The two bonded after his brief babysitting stint a while back, and it always unnerves Harvey to see them acting so chummy.

"You all set for Santa coming tonight?" Louis enquires with a good-natured grin, after a lull in conversation. He's pleasantly genuine, not a trace of a sneer to be defected on his face.

Biting his lip, Mike glances back at Harvey, a touch panicked, so he quickly steps in.

"Sure are," Harvey confirms whole-heartedly, perhaps overdoing it a bit. "Can't wait."

They present him with his share of cookies. To which, he responds with the appropriate amount of aww's. Then Mike gives him a quick hug before bidding him farewell.

After that, it's a matter of convincing Mike to nap before they go to pay the other lucky cookie-recipients a quick visit. Thanks to their big lunch, Harvey is free to throw together a PB&J for Mike's dinner when they get back and a health shake for himself. Before he knows it, they're knee-deep into the evening.

To him, it feels like the day has gone so fast, though he's sure Mike would beg to differ. He's been doing more than he's fair share of complaining.

"Daddy, you can't leave the plate _there_!" Mike gasps. "How will Santa find it? It needs to be beside the _balcony_."

Harvey restrains an eyes roll and lugs the stool over to the large window. "Happy?" The boy nods at last, to his relief. This is the fourth time he's had to revise the placement of those goddamn cookies. "Good. Now all we need is the carrot." He reaches for the bag, but Mike intervenes.

"No, no, no. I want to pick it!"

Mike shoves his hand into the bag and Harvey swears he picks the most deformed one on purpose.

"There," Harvey breathes, adding it to the plate of goodies. "One cookie and a glass of cola for Santa, and a hideous carrot for Rudolf. We done?"

"Nuh-uh." Mike shakes his head insistently. "I want to give my carrot to _Comet_. Daddy, you have to make sure he gets it."

Quirking a brow and pressing his lips together to cover his smirk, the father echoes, "Comet, huh?"

" _Yes_."

Harvey dimly recalls a conversation they held in the past about the most 'underrated' reindeers. Comet and Cupid were right up there. He nods. "Great idea, puppy. I'll write Santa a note to tell him to give it to Comet. How's that?"

"You better not forget."

"I won't," he chuckles. His son gets so bratty when he wants things to go his way.

Yet, it's great to see him so invested in this after so many weeks of apathy. Mike had gotten so accustomed to running and screaming from all things festive that it's been strange for him to embrace any holiday traditions. It took some getting used to, but he's definitely warmed up to it.

Maybe even a bit _too_ much.

"I'm gonna stay up forever and ever and ever," the boy confidently tells him, but the amount of cookies he managed to scoff down before Harvey cut him off means he'll be crashing soon.

They slip into snuggly pyjamas ahead of their usual bed-time schedule. Well, Mike does - pulling on the new set of snowman-themed pyjamas Harvey picked out for this very occasion.

Harvey, on the other hand, has to root around for a pair of bottoms since his sleepwear typically consists of a tee and boxer shorts. Close enough.

They decide to put on a movie and Harvey lets the youngster pick it out, secretly praying it won't be either _Avengers_ or _A_ _Charlie Brown Christmas._

It's the perfect chance for Mike to wind down, even while being plied with more sugar, and for Harvey to take a much-needed breather.

Mike insists they sit in the dark to get the full benefit of the lights on the tree. The boy's fascination with them hasn't diminished even slightly. This leads to Harvey burning a red, cranberry and vanilla candle and lighting a roaring fire in the hearth. Already, he can see Mike's lids drooping as he admires the flickering flames and becomes accustomed to the sporadic crackle.

Hands cupped around warm mugs of cinnamon hot cocoa, they settle in to watch _Elf_ , a bowl of popcorn slanting on Harvey's lap.

Mike blows on his frothy beverage and pokes a marshmallow bobbing at the top, before taking a long sip. It's so thick that he can't finish it. He's full by the fourth mouthful, on the verge of being sick by the sixth. That's when he sets it down.

Getting drowsy, Mike slumps into Harvey and yawns.

The condo is so warm and cosy that he struggles to make it to the end of the film. Eventually, he closes his eyes, just to rest them for one second, and instantly falls asleep against his Dad's shoulder, slobbering over his thumb. Harvey sweeps him up, carries him down to his room, and gets him settled. Hopefully that'll be him down for the night.

He stays up peeling vegetables for tomorrow, putting the finishing touches to the presents, making tomorrow's dessert and wondering _why on earth_ he decided it was a good idea to do this on Christmas Eve. What was he thinking?

He's waiting for light pattering up the hallway, a soft voice asking, ' _Is he here yet?'_ But it's…quiet. It's… nice...

Harvey puts Charles Bradley on low, because the silence is making him uncomfortable.

There's a lingering smokiness as the fire dies down. Mellow jazz playing behind him, he downs room-temperature cola that's already gone flat and sprinkles a pinch of crumbs. The carrot, he puts back.

A contented warmth flutters in Harvey's stomach.

He's feeling nostalgic, remembering his own childhood. When the chill of the crystallized blanket of snow outside crept indoors and the house was so silent you could hear a pin drop, he and Marcus would _hush_ and _shush_ and tiptoe down the stairs to try and catch a glimpse of the magic, but somehow always ended up getting caught themselves.

Harvey smiles at the memory, chuckles and shakes his head.

Then he sets to work straightening the cushions, collects their mugs, drops any stray corn kernels or pieces of popcorn that may have fallen between the cracks into the empty bowl.

Yawning, he carries the bowl to the kitchen, sticky-rimmed mugs hooked around his thumb and clinking against one and another with every step. Harvey stacks them in the sink, which is already home to a couple of dirty plates and glasses. Then he racks his brain for anything else that he needs to do, running through his mental list.

Homemade, cream-filled Yule log chilling in the refrigerator? Check. Vague understanding of the instructions for Mike's toys? Check…ish. Stuffed stockings? Check. Half-eaten food for Santa? Check. Glitter sprinkled over parcels at Donna's insistence to add a little 'pizzazz'? Unfortunately.

That verified, Harvey smiles sluggishly and unplugs out the lights, before retiring for the night.

Best to steal some beauty sleep while he still can.

God knows, he needs it.

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He's woken by someone squashing his cheeks.

Harvey groans, but the sound is muffled by icy hands, now digging into his chin.

Coral-tinted sunlight streams in the windows, bathing the room in the blush of dawn. Outside, New York is steeped in snow.

"Come on, Daddy," Mike moans, pulling at his arm. His face is all but glowing with excitement. "I've been waiting for _ages_."

Another deep-throated groan and he rolls outta bed. Bare feet touch down on the cold, hardwood floor and feel around until they slide into comfy slippers. Harvey throws on a rumpled hoodie over his tee lying at the bottom of his bed and yanks on a pair of pants, combing his fingers through his hair in a half-assed attempt to tame it.

He's groggy, half-sleep. In no way prepared for this.

But, as it so happens, nothing could have prepared him for the unbridled joy that courses through him while witnessing Mike open his presents. It makes all the goddamn paper cuts he acquired from folding all those evil, razor-sharp edges totally worth it just to see to the disbelieving look in his eye and utterly blinding smile.

Rather than lunge at the presents, Mike digs through his stocking first, unearthing a sticker book, colouring book, pair of Marvel socks, a finger-sized flashlight, milk straws, more hot wheel cars and new ear-buds.

"Look, Jellybean!" he gasps, tossing the wolf's stocking aside. "This is for you." He holds up a heavy jar of jellybeans for, yes…Jellybean. Harvey never claimed to be creative. In addition to that, there is a netted bag of chocolate coins enclosed in golden foil and a chocolate Santa that, for some reason, causes tears to well up in Mike's eyes as if it meant more to him than everything else combined.

He'll have to remember to ask about that later.

Then, before he can blink, Mike tackles him in a hug.

"Thank you," he whispers, burrowing his face in his chest.

Harvey almost blurts out, _what for?_ But he stops himself. He doesn't need to know.

Grabbing a beautifully-wrapped parcel, Mike holds it up to his ear and shakes it curiously. Something rattles. He unfastens the ribbon and tears through the paper. Inside lies a box of…you guessed it. Another Lego City set to add to his collection, because - as stated by Mike - one can never have too much Lego. Ever.

Harvey begs to differ.

Taking his time with each one, Mike makes his way through the present and in the process, uncovers a huge train set, a lumpy, microwaveable puppy, baseball tickets for spring, an engraved baseball bat and glove, and several limited edition, vintage comics. He pores over each one, feeling unbelievably overwhelmed by gratitude, and shedding a few tears. But when it comes to the last one, Mike hesitates, and he's not sure why. It's much smaller than the rest and oddly light. It could be anything.

Holding his breath for reasons he has yet to define, Mike pushes the inner tissue aside to reveal a lone receipt.

Mike's brows knit in bewilderment. "What…?"

Then he sees it.

It's a receipt, dated months back.

And it's for Jellybean.

"W-wh…-Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because," Harvey says, taking a deep breath and producing a small smile. "As far as I'm concerned…the second I bought that stuffed animal…you became my son."

Mike has no words.

Instead, he throws his arms around him and he cries, because that's the single greatest thing his Dad could possibly say on a day like today.

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For breakfast, after Mike's calmed down and is ready for it to be Christmas again, they go halfsies on a tasty cinnamon roll baked from scratch, sitting on the floor amongst scattered toys and passing the roll between them.

Although at the time of wrapping, it had seemed like a heaving pile of presents, staring at them now, it's actually a fairly modest amount. Mike already has so much stuff that any more one would obscene. Truthfully, he doesn't like having to share credit with Santa, but Harvey can't complain. Not when he's the one who insisted bringing him into it.

Then, having perked up significantly, Mike demands his train set be set up, and Harvey knuckles down and puts his skills as self-taught toy engineer to use, cursing toy trains and the twist ties that keep them stapled to the damn box. It takes most of the morning to construct it all.

By the time Donna arrives, he's swapped out his hastily thrown together outfit for a dapper, dark raspberry dress shirt and slacks, thinking she'd want him to be presentable. Turns out, he needn't have bothered.

She has her own ideas.

"Uh…yeah…no - I'm not wearing that." He quickly steps back, holding up a hand. "Nuh-uh. No way. I won't do it. You can't make me."

It's a green, tree hat.

With multi-coloured _bobbles_ that _jiggle,_ sprouting from every angle.

"Oh, grow up, Harvey," Donna bites, rolling her eyes as if he's being childish. "Of course I can make you."

And if that isn't enough, there are the hideous, matching sweaters that she yanks over their heads. Mike's is a size too big, hanging off his shoulders, and Harvey's is, well - it's just so _hideous_.

Mike pouts and squirms and pulls resentful faces, while wriggling around as if, by doing so, it will miraculously slip off. It would be hilarious if Harvey weren't right there alongside him, fighting the urge to do the same.

The first picture snapped features an unimpressed Harvey with his lip raised, glaring at something off camera (Donna), and agitated Mike arching his back, arm twisted behind him trying to rip the goddamn tag off.

Donna exhales noisily. "Guys…you've gotta give me something to work with. I know I'm, like, a gorgeous, red-headed Goddess with borderline superpowers, but even I have my limits."

"It's _itchy_."

"Oh, boo hoo," she exclaims unsympathetically, adjusting the lens and aligning the camera. "You can take it off after. "

"Why are we doing this again?" Harvey protests.

"Because I know things about you that are worth so much more than anything I could milk from these photos-" Her tone is sugary sweet and she's all but baring her teeth. "-and Mike is incredibly easy to bribe. So shut up," she grins, shark-like "-and smile."

Twenty gruelling photographs later and it's like they're dealing with a whole other person.

"Awwww!" Donna coos. "You two are so _adorable_! Why don't you two dress the same all the time?"

"Probably for this exact reason," Harvey mutters. He thinks if he hears one more shutter going off, he's going to scream.

"Hmm. Well, maybe we could-"

"Get started on dinner," he quickly cuts in. He schools his face into Sensible Dad Harvey and not Grumpy Bored Harvey. "We have a lot to do."

The senior partner's never been so thankful for the time-consuming intricacy of Christmas dinner in his life.

Chopping and parboiling and flitting around each other like a well-oiled machine, Harvey and Donna labour in the kitchen until well into the afternoon, with their thyme-filled turkey sizzling in tin foil inside the oven all the way through.

Even after all of their hard work, neither care much about how the table looks, so all they end up with are red napkins, polished cutlery, and Jellybean as an unintentional centrepiece - who needed to be close enough to the action to be included, but not so close as to get sprayed with airborne mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Ready to stuff your face with my divine cooking?" Donna eggs Mike on with daring wriggly brows while serving up dinner. "Behold _…_ I'm even wearing my special stretchy pants." She snaps the elastic waistband to illustrate her point and grins, totally unapologetic. "And I still look fabulous." She really does.

"Yup!" He flashes a dimpled grin. "I ready for lots and lots of chicken."

"No, sweetie-" Her smile wavers. "We're not having chicken today, remember? We're having _tur-_."

Harvey hastily shakes his head.

 _"Go with it,"_ he mouths, and she quickly snaps her mouth shut, fixing her bright smile back in place.

Most of the meal is spent chasing Mike with a washcloth, mopping up spills, and rescuing food from the floor. They hit a slight snag when Mike frowns, spears a slice of carrot with his fork, and narrows his eyes at it, announcing,"This is the same carrot I left out for Santa," and Harvey has to feign confusion.

"What are you talking about? Santa's reindeers ate that one, remember? Comet, specifically, if I recall correctly."

"No, it's _this_ one," he persists, not buying it for one second. "I know it is."

Seriously? How does he _do_ that? "Mike," Harvey's not sure how to get out of this one (it's not like he can _prove_ it), so all he says is: "eat the damn carrot."

They eat until they can eat no more.

At the end, Mike presses his hands down on his bloated tummy, and Harvey and Donna laugh heartily - and inwardly coo - as he giggles at the sound of masticated food sloshing inside.

While Mike drags Donna off to play, Harvey scrapes off the scraps on the plates, rinses off the damn gravy, and pulls out the tray to slides them in. There's not really not that much to clean up. They did most of the washing up as they went along. He jabs the button to start a new cycle and that's it.

Time to relax.

A messy pile of discarded wrapping paper and curled ribbons cover the floor and the living area looks like a tornado flew through it. But that's Boxing day's problem.

Cracking open a bottle of red wine to enjoy, the two adults put their feet up and watch Mike play with his spoils. This time next week, Harvey bets, sharing a smirk with Donna that shows she's thinking the exact same thing, at least half of those toys will be lost or broken.

About an hour later, sleepy after dinner and having missed out on his daily nap earlier, Mike climbs onto Harvey's lap, sucking his thumb and clutching his blankie.

Amusement plays along his mouth as Harvey snakes his arms around his sluggish son and rests his chin on his head. It's been a long day of animation and over-stimulation for the youngster. This was long overdue.

"By the way," Donna remarks as she picks through the box of chocolates. She pops one in her mouth, instantly spitting it out into a paper napkin. "Pecan," she explains, at their bemused looks, then goes on, "Your cookies were _seriously_ good. I'm a bit disappointed I didn't get any, but you were seriously generous this year - really out-did yourself - so I'll excuse you this time. But _next_ time, I call dibs on no less than three boxes of snickerdoodles, which you _will_ make, by the way. I'll disown you if you don't."

Harvey smirks. "I was generous? That's news to me."

"Oh, yeah." She nods seriously. "My wardrobe and shapely ass thank you."

"You know what? I'm not even going to ask."

"Oh, get your head out of the gutter," Donna laughs, smacking him up the back of the head. "There's just this one dress that, well -" She whistles. "You'll see for yourself. The sheer number of whistles and catcalls I got sporting that baby, you would not believe."

She shakes herself. "Anyway - I should be off. I've still gotta call in with my mother and you know how well _that_ goes."

Harvey makes a face. "That I do." He's never been a fan of that woman.

Bending to hug Mike, Donna pecks his forehead and smiles tenderly. "Nighty-night, sweetheart. Sleep well."

"Ni-night, D-Donna," he yawns, blinking fuzzily and returning her hug.

"Bye, Harvey." She blows him a kiss. "Try not to miss me too much. I'll probably drop by tomorrow."

"Good luck," he calls, only to have a chocolate thrown at his head. Pecan, if he had to hazard a guess.

Suddenly, Mike tugs on his sleeve. He looks down in surprise.

"Daddy, you forgot about your present."

"My present?" He frowns.

"Uh-huh." His smile is shy and sweet. "From me." Rummaging for something at the other side of him, Mike passes him a single sheet and the beam that blossoms on Harvey's face is instantaneous.

It's simple. Beautifully simple.

A shiny picture and little else.

He must have asked Donna to laminate one of his drawings and glued it onto a coloured sheet, then stuck on a print off of next year's calendar below. Signed it at the bottom with an irresistibly cute:

_To the bestest Daddy ever. Lots of love from,_

_Mike x_

And... _voila_.

Instant masterpiece.

His cheeks hurt smiling as he takes it in, drifting an almost reverent finger over little details.

Long, squiggly red hair for Donna, wearing a blocky, purple triangle for a dress and blue pointy shoes she would gladly burn to a crisp with a blowtorch. He smirks at the large, asymmetrical ears protruding from Louis' potato-shaped head, smile softening as he takes in Rachel's curly spaghetti arms and flat, disproportionate body.

Jessica is fortunate enough to be spared from the mad _oh-my-gosh-there's-so-many-colours-which-one-should-I-choose-first-Red?-no-Blue!-wait, Orange!?-oh, screw it-I-LOVE-THEM-ALL-okay-phew-back-to-work_ crayon frenzy that spurred Mike's ghastly fashion choices, but isn't quite so lucky when it comes to evading the weird, lanky style that plagues all of the females in his drawings. The managing partner does maintain some allusion of class, at least. And her twig legs seem to go on for miles. That's gotta work in her favour, right?

And then, of course, smack bam in the centre, is an awkward illustration of Mike himself.

Not tiny enough, in his opinion, but noticeably smaller by comparison. It pleases the father immensely to see that Mike's judgment of himself - although not wholly accurate - has changed significantly since his first drawing all those many months ago. It's a subtle reduction in height, but it shows just how far they've come. And how Mike truly is becoming more accepting of himself and his altered body.

To his immense pleasure, the most realistic portrait is probably of Harvey himself, who, although the brown hair is a touch too spiky for his taste, is at least clothed in what appears to be a suit and crooked tie - with a silk pocket square tucked into his breast pocket.

The childish rendering of their little firm family is incredibly endearing, but that little attention to detail strikes him as particularly heart-warming, and Harvey feels his eyes stinging before he knows it.

He is floored by the love he feels for this little boy. He can't remember a time in his life when his heart hasn't felt so full.

"Merry Christmas, Daddy," Mike grins, craning his neck to plant a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek, mouth smothered in melted chocolate.

In that moment, he swears, they've never felt more like a family.

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_Thanks for reading. Happy holidays, everyone x._


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